John. Humbug! you don’t know what you are talking about. I tell you they’re a good-for-nothing, lazy pair of—Hallo! here’s Raymond. (Enter Mr. R., R.)
Ray. Halloo, Gale! back already? what luck?
John. Hem! luck. Precious poor.
Raymond. I’m sorry for that. But, Gale, my daughter has been telling me a strange story about these boys. They’re not yours.
John. Who says they ain’t? I’d like to know who’s a better right to ’em.
Ray. Well, well, I’m not going to dispute it. But I would like to hear the story from your lips.
John. It’ll be a precious short one, I can tell you. Well, they ain’t my boys. They were shipwrecked on the coast twenty-three years ago.
Ray. Twenty-three years ago?
John. Yes, exactly twenty-three years ago, in the month of September, we were awakened one night by the booming of guns off shore. ’Twas a black night, I tell you,—a roaring gale, the sea dashed over the rocks almost to our door, and the rain poured in torrents. We hastened to the beach. Half a mile off, stuck fast in the sands, was a ship, blue-lights burning and cannons firing. It was no use: mortal man could not reach her in such a sea. In the morning, scattered pieces of the wreck, a few dead bodies, and a live baby, was all there was left of her.
Ray. A living child?