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.]