The train stops at Framingham, and THE PORTER comes in with a passenger whom he shows to the seat opposite MR. and MRS. ROBERTS.

THE PORTER. You can sit here, sah. We’ll be in in about an hour now. Hang up your bag for you, sah?

THE PASSENGER. No, leave it on the seat here.

[THE PORTER goes out, and the ROBERTSES maintain a dejected silence. The bottom of the bag, thrown carelessly on the seat, is toward the ROBERTSES, who regard it listlessly.]

MRS. ROBERTS (suddenly clutching her husband’s arm, and hissing in his ear). See! [She points to the white lettering on the bag, where the name “Willis Campbell, San Francisco,” is distinctly legible.] But it can’t be; it must be some other Campbell. I can’t risk it.

MR. ROBERTS. But there’s the name. It would be very strange if there were two people from San Francisco of exactly the same name. I will speak.

MRS. ROBERTS (as wildly as one can in whisper). No, no, I can’t let you. We’ve made ourselves the laughing-stock of the whole car already with our mistakes, and I can’t go on. I would rather perish than ask him. You don’t suppose it could be? No, it couldn’t. There may be twenty Willis Campbells in San Francisco, and there probably are. Do you think he looks like me! He has a straight nose; but you can’t tell anything about the lower part of his face, the beard covers it so; and I can’t make out the color of his eyes by this light. But of course it’s all nonsense. Still if it should be! It would be very stupid of us to ride all the way from Framingham to Boston with that name staring one in the eyes. I wish he would turn it away. If 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. ROBERTS (enraptured by his companionship). Oh, he must be some connection. [She glances through the window.] I do believe that was Newton, or Newtonville, or West Newton, or Newton Centre. I must run and wake up baby, and get him dressed. I shan’t want to wait an instant after we get in. Why, we’re slowing up! Why, I do believe we’re there! Edward, we’re there! Only fancy being there already!

MR. ROBERTS. Yes, my dear. Only we’re not quite there yet. Hadn’t we better call your aunt Mary?

MRS. ROBERTS. I’d forgotten her.

CAMPBELL. Is Aunt Mary with you?

MRS. ROBERTS. To be sure she is. Didn’t I tell you? She came on expressly to meet you.

CAMPBELL (starting up impetuously). Which berth is she in?

MRS. ROBERTS. Right over baby.

CAMPBELL. And which berth is baby in?

MRS. ROBERTS (distractedly). Why, that’s just what I can’t tell. It was bad enough when they were all filled up, but now since the people have begun to come out of them, and some of them are made into seats I can’t tell.

THE CALIFORNIAN. I’ll look for you, ma’am. I should like to wake up all the wrong passengers on this car. I’d take a pleasure in it. If you could make sure of any berth that ain’t the one, I’ll begin on that.

MRS. ROBERTS. I can’t even be sure of the wrong one. No, no; you mustn’t—[THE CALIFORNIAN moves away, and pauses in front of one of the berths, looking back inquiringly at MRS. ROBERTS.] Oh, don’t ask me! I can’t tell. [To CAMPBELL.] Isn’t he amusing? So like all those Californians that one reads of—so chivalrous and so humorous!

AUNT MARY (thrusting her head from the curtains of the berth before which THE CALIFORNIAN is standing). Go along with you! What do you want?

THE CALIFORNIAN. Aunt Mary.

AUNT MARY. Go away. Aunt Mary, indeed!

MRS. ROBERTS (running toward her, followed by CAMPBELL and MR. ROBERTS). Why, Aunt Mary, it is you! And here’s Willis, and here’s Edward.

AUNT MARY. Nonsense! How did they get aboard?

MRS. ROBERTS. Edward came on at Worcester and Willis at Framingham, to surprise me.

AUNT MARY. And a very silly performance. Let them wait till I’m dressed, and then I’ll talk to them. Send for the porter. [She withdraws her head behind the curtain, and then thrusts it out again.] And who, pray, may this be?

[She indicates THE CALIFORNIAN.]

MRS. ROBERTS. Oh, a friend of ours from California, who’s been so kind to us all night, and who’s going home with us.

AUNT MARY. Another ridiculous surprise, I suppose. But he shall not surprise me. Young man, isn’t your name Sawyer?

THE CALIFORNIAN. Yes, ma’am.

AUNT MARY. Abram?

THE CALIFORNIAN. Abram Sawyer. You’re right there, ma’am.

MRS. ROBERTS. Oh! oh! I knew it! I knew that he must be somebody belonging to us. Oh, thank you, aunty, for thinking—

AUNT MARY. Don’t be absurd, Agnes. Then you’re my—

A VOICE from one of the berths. Lost step-son. Found! found at last!

[THE CALIFORNIAN looks vainly round in an endeavor to identify the speaker, and then turns again to AUNT MARY.]

AUNT MARY. Weren’t your parents from Bath?

THE CALIFORNIAN (eagerly). Both of ’em, ma’am—both of ’em.

THE VOICE. O my prophetic soul, my uncle!

AUNT MARY. Then you’re my old friend Kate Harris’s daughter?

THE CALIFORNIAN. I might be her son, ma’am; but my mother’s name was Susan Wakeman.

AUNT MARY (in sharp disgust). Call the porter, please.

[She withdraws her head and pulls her curtains together; the rest look blankly at one another.]

CAMPBELL. Another failure, and just when we thought we were sure of you. I don’t know what we shall do about you, Mr. Sawyer.

THE VOICE. Adopt him.

CAMPBELL. That’s a good idea. We will adopt you. You shall be our adoptive—

THE VOICE. Baby boy.

ANOTHER VOICE. Wife.

A THIRD VOICE. Brother.

A FOURTH VOICE. Early friend.

A FIFTH VOICE. Kate Harris’s daughter.

CAMPBELL (laying his hand on THE CALIFORNIAN’S shoulder, and breaking into a laugh). Don’t mind them. They don’t mean anything. It’s just their way. You come home with my sister, and spend Christmas, and let us devote the rest of our lives to making your declining years happy.

VOICES. “Good for you, Willis!” “We’ll all come!” “No ceremony!” “Small and early!”

CAMPBELL (looking round). We appear to have fallen in with a party of dry-goods drummers. It makes a gentleman feel like an intruder. [The train stops; he looks out of the window.] We’ve arrived. Come, Agnes; come, Roberts; come, Mr. Sawyer—let’s be going.

[They gather up their several wraps and bags, and move with great dignity toward the door.]

AUNT MARY (putting out her head). Agnes! If you must forget your aunt, at least remember your child.

MRS. ROBERTS (running back in an agony of remorse). Oh, baby, did I forget you?

CAMPBELL. Oh, aunty, did she forget you? [He runs back, and extends his arms to his aunt.] Let me help you down, Aunt Mary.

AUNT MARY. Nonsense, Willis. Send the porter.

CAMPBELL (turning round and confronting THE PORTER). He was here upon instinct. Shall he fetch a step-ladder?

AUNT MARY. He will know what to do. Go away, Willis; go away with that child, Agnes. If I should happen to fall on you—[They retreat; the curtain drops, and her voice is heard behind it addressing THE PORTER.] Give me your hand; now your back; now your knee. So! And very well done. Thanks.