Ray. But, Gale, was no inquiries ever made for these lads?
John. No; and I didn’t take particular care to hunt up their owners. If they don’t care enough for ’em to hunt ’em up, I’m content. They’ve been well brought up: they’re a credit to anybody. There’s a good home for ’em here; there’s the broad ocean for their labor; and there are honest hearts here that love ’em as their own; and, if they’re not content, ’twill not be the fault of John Gale.
March. Hurrah for John Gale!
John. Now, what do you mean by yelling in that way, you good-for-nothing—
Mrs. Gale. Smart, clever,—Hey, John?
John. Now what’s the use of talking—
Ray. But these lads, Gale: was nothing found about them by which they could be identified?
John. No; Sept. was well bundled up in nice soft flannels, while March was tied up in an old pea-jacket: but no name or marks about them.
Ray. This is very strange—very strange. (Enter Kitty, R. hurriedly.)