The men had noticed it, but no one had given vent to his thoughts.
Tod, of course, knew the cause of the captain's impatience, but no one of the others did, not even Archie; time enough for that when the Swede's story was proved true.

If the fellow had lied that was an end to it; if he had told the truth Bart would answer, and the mystery be cleared up.

This same silence had been maintained toward Jane and the doctor; better not raise hopes he could not verify--certainly not in Jane's breast.
Not that he had much hope himself; he dared not hope.

Hope meant a prop to his old age; hope meant joy to Jane, who would welcome the prodigal; hope meant relief to the doctor, who could then claim his own; hope meant redemption for Lucy, a clean name for Archie, and honor to himself and his only son.
No wonder, then, that he watched for an answer to his letter with feverish impatience.

His own missive had been blunt and to the point, asking the direct question: "Are you alive or dead, and if alive, why did you fool me with that lie about your dying of fever in a hospital and keep me waiting all these years ?" Anything more would have been superfluous in the captain's judgment--certainly until he received some more definite information as to whether the man was his son.
Half a dozen times this lovely September morning the captain had strolled leisurely out of the back door and had mounted the low hillock for a better view.