Hargrave (devoutly). It was no desire of mine to dig up the past, to unearth that which belonged rightly to the dead. Your conduct, however, has made the telling inevitable.
Jack. A telling speech, father. But tell me, have I got a number?
Hargrave (bitterly). You have, sir! You have! Allow me to tell you, sir, that you once were, and I have no doubt still are, undutifully registered at Crapsey Hall, Canterbury, under the charge of an abominable brute by that name, as John—plain John, Disciple No. 1, in an evil establishment known as a School for Socialism.
Jack (embracing him wildly). Father! I forgive you! Everything! (Kissing him.) Turn the other cheek, father. Oh, such luck, such luck! I'll return at once. My fortune and future are assured now. (Tosses his cap into the air.) And to think that of all numbers, I should have been No. 1.
Hargrave (kindly). You are surely an odd number, Jack.
Jack. Dear Crapsey! I wonder how he came to give me that particular number, or if he knew that I thought of no one but myself?
Hargrave. I stole you from that heathen Hell—
Jack. Yes, yes, father.
Hargrave. And you were the first, last, and only little devil ever entered there.
Jack (crushed). Oh!