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“Had that old timekeeper a voice,” he remarked, “it could tell us a rare tale! It was Captain Cook’s shipmate on two voyages, traveling thousands of leagues over seas little known even now. It began life in London; now it will end its days on Pitcairn’s Island.”

Smith nodded. “Like me, sir!” he said.

“Were you born in London? I took you for a countryman.”

“Aye, Mr. Christian; born there and reared in a foundling’s home. I’m under false colors here. My real name is John Adams; the lads used to call me ‘Reckless Jack.’ I got into a bit of trouble and thought best to sign on as Alexander Smith.”

Christian nodded, and asked after a brief pause: “Tell me, Smith, are you contented here?”

“That I am, sir! My folk were countrymen, till my dad was fool enough to try his fortune in London. It’s in my blood. Happy? If ye was all to leave, and give me the chance, I’d stop here with my old woman to end my days.”

Christian smiled. “I am glad, since I fetched you here. It would be curious, were we able to look ahead twenty years. There will be broad plantations, new houses, and children—many of them—I hope.”