it really turned out to be Willis, he would think we were awfully stiff and cold. But I can’t help it; I can’t go attacking every stranger I see, and accusing him of being my brother. No, no, I can’t, and I won’t, and that’s all about it. [She leans forward and addresses the stranger with sudden sweetness.] Excuse me, sir, but I am very much interested by the name on your bag. Not that I think you are even acquainted with him, and there are probably a great many of them there; but your coming from the same city and all does seem a little queer, and I hope you won’t think me intrusive in speaking to you, because if you should happen, by the thousandth of a chance, to be the right one, I should be so happy!
CAMPBELL. The right what, madam?
MRS. ROBERTS. The right Willis Campbell.
CAMPBELL. I hope I’m not the wrong one; though after a week’s pull on the railroad it’s pretty hard for a man to tell which Willis Campbell he is. May I ask if your Willis Campbell had friends in Boston?
MRS. ROBERTS (eagerly). He had a sister and a brother-in-law and a nephew.
CAMPBELL. Name of Roberts?
MRS. ROBERTS. Every one.
CAMPBELL. Then you’re—
MRS. ROBERTS (ecstatically). Agnes!
CAMPBELL. And he’s—
MRS. ROBERTS. Mr. Roberts!
CAMPBELL. And the baby’s—
MRS. ROBERTS. Asleep!
CAMPBELL. Then I am the right one.
MRS. ROBERTS. Oh, Willis! Willis! Willis! To think of our meeting in this way! [She kisses and embraces him, while MR. ROBERTS shakes one of his hands which he finds disengaged.] How in the world did it happen?
CAMPBELL. Ah, I found myself a little ahead of time, and I stopped off with an old friend of mine at Framingham; I didn’t want to disappoint you when you came to meet this train, or get you up last night at midnight.
MRS. ROBERTS. And I was in Albany, and I’ve been moving heaven and earth to get home before you arrived; and Edward came aboard at Worcester to surprise me, and—Oh, you’ve never seen the baby! I’ll run right and get him this instant, just as he is, and bring him. Edward, you be explaining to Willis—Oh, my goodness! [Looking wildly about.] I don’t remember the berth, and I shall be sure to wake up that poor California gentleman again. What shall I do?
CAMPBELL. What California gentleman?
MRS. ROBERTS. Oh, somebody we’ve been stirring up the whole blessed night. First I took him for baby, and then Edward took him for me, and then I took him for baby again, and then we both took him for you.
CAMPBELL. Did he look like any of us?
MRS. ROBERTS. Like us? He’s eight feet tall, if he’s an inch, in his stockings—and he’s always in them—and he has a long black beard and mustaches, and he’s very lanky, and stoops over a good deal; but he’s just as lovely as he can be and live, and he’s been as kind and patient as twenty Jobs.
CAMPBELL. Speaks in a sort of soft, slow grind?
MRS. ROBERTS. Yes.
CAMPBELL. Gentle and deferential to ladies?
MRS. ROBERTS. As pie.
CAMPBELL. It’s Tom Goodall. I’ll have him out of there in half a second. I want you to take him home with you, Agnes. He’s the best fellow in the world. Which is his berth?
MRS. ROBERTS. Don’t ask me, Willis. But if you’d go for baby, you’ll be sure to find him.
MR. ROBERTS (timidly indicating a berth). I think that’s the one.
CAMPBELL (plunging at it, and pulling the curtains open). You old Tom Goodall!
THE CALIFORNIAN (appearing). I ain’t any Tom Goodall. My name’s Abram Sawyer.
CAMPBELL (falling back). Well, sir, you’re right. I’m awfully sorry to disturb you; but, from my sister’s description here, I felt certain you must be my old friend Tom Goodall.
THE CALIFORNIAN. I ain’t surprised at it. I’m only surprised I ain’t Tom Goodall. I’ve been a baby twice, and I’ve been a man’s wife once, and once I’ve been a long-lost brother.
CAMPBELL (laughing). Oh, they’ve found him. I’m the long-lost brother.
THE CALIFORNIAN (sleepily). Has she found the other one?
CAMPBELL. Yes; all right, I believe.
THE CALIFORNIAN. Has he found what he wanted?
CAMPBELL. Yes; we’re all together here. [THE CALIFORNIAN makes a movement to get into bed again.] Oh, don’t! You’d better make a night of it now. It’s almost morning anyway. We want you to go home with us, and Mrs. Roberts will give you a bed at her house, and let you sleep a week.
THE CALIFORNIAN. Well, I reckon you’re right, stranger. I seem to be in the hands of Providence tonight anyhow. [He pulls on his boots and coat, and takes his seat beside CAMPBELL.] I reckon there ain’t any use in fighting against Providence.
MRS. ROBERTS (briskly, as if she had often tried it and failed). Oh, not the least in the world. I’m sure it was all intended; and if you had turned out to be Willis at last, I should be certain of it. What surprises me is that you shouldn’t turn out to be anybody, after all.
THE CALIFORNIAN. Yes, it is kind of curious. But I couldn’t help it. I did my best.
MRS. ROBERTS. Oh, don’t speak of it. We are the ones who ought to apologize. But if you only had been somebody, it would have been such a good joke! We could always have had such a laugh over it, don’t you see?
THE CALIFORNIAN. Yes, ma’am, it would have been funny. But I hope you’ve enjoyed it as it is.
MRS. ROBERTS. Oh, very much, thanks to you. Only I can’t seem to get reconciled to your not being anybody, after all. You must at least be some one we’ve heard about, don’t you think? It’s so strange that you and Willis never even met. Don’t you think you have some acquaintances in common?
CAMPBELL. Look here, Agnes, do you always shout at the top of your voice in this way when you converse in a sleeping-car?
MRS. ROBERTS. Was I talking loud again? Well, you can’t help it if you want to make people hear you.
CAMPBELL. But there must be a lot of them who don’t want to hear you. I wonder that the passengers who are not blood-relations don’t throw things at you—boots and hand-bags and language.
MRS. ROBERTS. Why, that’s what they’ve been doing—language, at least—and I’m only surprised they’re not doing it now.
THE CALIFORNIAN (rising). They’d better not, ma’am.
[He patrols the car from end to end, and quells some rising murmurs, halting at the rebellious berths as he passes.]
MRS.
