be shipwrecks to-night on our coast.

(_Exit Bessie and Carvil through door of their cottage. It has fallen
dusk_.)

Capt. H. (_Picks up spade_). Extravagant fellow! And all this town is
mad--perfectly mad. I found them out years ago. Thank God they don't
come this way staring and grinning. I can't bear them. I'll never go
again into that High Street. (_Agitated_.) Never, never, never. Won't
need to after to-morrow. Never! (_Flings down spade in passion_.)

(_While Hagberd speaks, the bow window of the Carvils is lit up, and
Bessie is seen settling her father in a big armchair. Pulls down blind.
Enter Lamplighter. Capt. H. picks up the spade and leans forward on it
with both hands; very still, watching him light the lamp_.)

Lamplighter (_Jocular_). There! You will be able to dig by lamplight if
the fancy takes you.

(_Exit Lamplighter to back_.)

Capt. H. (_Disgusted_). Ough! The people here. . . (_Shudders_.)

Lamplighter's Voice (_Heard loudly beyond the cottages_). Yes, that's
the way.

(_Enter Harry from back_.)

SCENE III.

(_Capt. H. Harry. Later Bessie_).

Harry Hagberd (_thirty-one, tall, broad shoulders, shaven face, small
moustache. Blue serge suit. Coat open. Grey flannel shirt without
collar and tie. No waistcoat. Belt with buckle. Black, soft felt hat,
wide-brimmed, worn crushed in the crown and a little on one side. Good
nature, recklessness, some swagger in the bearing. Assured, deliberate
walk with a heavy tread. Slight roll in the gait. Walks down. Stops,
hands in pockets. Looks about. Speaks_.) This must be it. Can't see
anything beyond. There's somebody. (_Walks up to Capt. Hagberd's gate?_)
Can you tell me... (_Manner changes. Leans elbow on gate?_) Why, you
must be Capt. Hagberd himself.

Capt. H. (_In garden, both hands on spade, peering, startled_). Yes, I
am.

Harry (_Slowly_). You've been advertising in the papers for your son, I
believe.

Capt. H. (_Off his guard, nervous_). Yes. My only boy Harry. He's coming
home to-morrow. (_Mumbles_.) For a permanent stay.

Harry (_Surprised_). The devil he is! (_Change of tone?_) My word!
You've grown a beard like Father Christmas himself.

Capt. H. (_Impressively_). Go your way. (_Waves one hand loftily?_)
What's that to you. Go your way. (_Agitated?_) Go your way.

Harry. There, there. I am not trespassing in the street--where I
stand--am I? Tell you what, I fancy there's something wrong about your
news. Suppose you let me c