Two fishermen who had come for
their papers occupied seats against the wall.
The captain walked to the corner of the table,
stood behind his own chair and rested the knuckles
of one hand on the white oilcloth. The look on his
face attracted every eye. Pausing for a moment, he
turned to Polhemus and spoke to him for the others:
"Isaac, I got a letter just now. Fogarty brought
it over. You knew my boy Bart, didn't ye, the one
that's been dead nigh on to twenty years?"
The old surfman nodded, his eyes still fastened
on the captain. This calling him "Isaac" was evidence
that something personal and unusual was coming.
The men, too, leaned forward in attention; the
story of Bart's disappearance and death had been
discussed up and down the coast for years.
"Well, he's alive," rejoined the captain with a
triumphant tone in his voice, "and he'll be here in
a week--comin' to Amboy on a steamer. There
ain't no mistake about it; here's his letter."
The announcement was received in dead silence.
To be surprised was not characteristic of these men,
especially over a matter of this kind. Death was a
part of their daily experience, and a resurrection
neither extraordinary nor uncommon.
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