Henry led the way out of the barn. Alec heard the Black’s soft whistle as the light went out. Then there was silence. Henry shut the barn door.

A slight chill had crept into the air. The van had already gone. They walked slowly down the gravel road toward the gate. Henry handed Alec the key to the lock. “You can have this, son,” he said. “I’ve another up at the house, and you’ll probably be coming around here a lot now.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dailey,” replied Alec. “I certainly will.”

“That’s all right—and you don’t have to call me Mr. Dailey—just call me Henry like everyone does around here. Anything else seems kind of funny!”

“Right, Henry.”

Henry left them at the gate. They crossed the street and walked up toward the house. Alec saw a light on the front porch and his legs traveled faster.

“Take it easy,” said his father. “I’m not as young as I used to be, you know!”

“I can’t even keep up with that pace myself,” laughed Joe, “and I’m still pretty young.”

“I’ll meet you there,” said Alec, and he broke into a run.

He reached the house and took the porch steps two at a time. He flung himself at the door. It was unlocked; he ran into the hallway and glanced into the living room; it was empty. He put a hand on the banister and started up the stairs. Then he heard his mother’s voice from the kitchen. “Alexander, is that you?”

“Yes, Mom, it’s really me,” he yelled. He ran into the kitchen and flung his arms around his mother. “Boy, it’s good to be home!” he said.

He looked up at his mother and saw that her eyes were moist. “What’s the matter, Mom? What are you crying for?”

Mrs. Ramsay smiled through her tears. “Nothing’s the matter. I’m just glad you’re home, that’s all.”

Alec put his lean brown arm through his mother’s soft plump one, and together they went into the living room as his father and Joe Russo came in from outdoors.

The reporter looked around the room with its soft shaded lights and its comfortable-looking furniture, then at Alec and his father and mother. “Guess you couldn’t blame him for wanting to get back to this,” Joe said.

“You bet!” Alec agreed.

His mother sat down on the couch and Alec sat beside her, his arm still in hers. His father was filling his pipe in his favorite chair in the corner. “All right, son,” he said. “Tell us all about it.”

“Well,” Alec began, “it was a few days after I left Uncle Ralph at Bombay that we stopped at a small Arabian port on the Red Sea—”

The clock on top of the radio ticked off the minutes as Alec told his story. Once more he was on the Drake and seeing the Black for the first time. He forgot that his mother, his father and Joe Russo were listening to him. He was in the storm, hearing the roar of the gale and the smashing of the waves against the boat. He heard the loud crack of lightning as it struck the ship. Then the Black was dragging him through the water—hours and hours they battled the waves in the darkness. He roamed the island, fighting against starvation. He discovered the carragheen that had saved them both. He rode the stallion for the first time—that wild, never-to-be-forgotten ride! Then the fire, that awful fire, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The joy that was his when he saw the sailors dragging their boat up the beach. Rio de Janeiro—home.…