“A Sydney lady?” Tom ventured to inquire.
“Good heavens, no! If she only were as near as that! She is on her way out to marry me; this letter was written a month before she sailed.”
“From England?”
“Yes.”
“You will see her in another month!”
“Perhaps before. You never know how long or how short the voyage will be. Mine was a hundred and thirty-six days, and that was long. I kept a chart of it—stop, I’m going to fetch it! Clear away, I’ve had dinner enough.”
He rushed from the table to return presently with a mariner’s chart of the world, upon which he had neatly marked out the daily courses of his recent voyage. It was a chain of many links from England to the Cape, and a chain of longer links from the Cape to Australia.
“Now then!” cried Daintree, arranging the chart under the lamp, and seating himself delightedly at the table. “Now we’ll see where they’ve got to. Halloa! Where’s my letter?”
It was on the floor, and Tom picked it up, averting his eyes so that he should see nothing while Daintree referred to the contents.
“Ha! Here we have it,” and the letter was thrust into his pocket. “They were to sail on the twenty-third of June. How many days ago is that? This is September the twelfth. Seven—thirty-one—thirty-one and twelve. How much is that?”
“Eighty-one,” said Tom.
“Only eighty-one! Then you’re right,” sighed Daintree, “and they won’t be here for another month. I was fifty-five days more.”
