She drew a breath, and he said, good-humouredly: “Aye, with the door shut. I wouldn’t care if... And you think he could be brought round to recognise me... Eh? What?... You could do it? In a week you say? H’m, I daresay you could--but do you think I could hold out a week in this dead-alive place? Not me! I want either hard work, or an all-fired racket, or more space than there is in the whole of England. I have been in this place, though, once before, and for more than a week. The old man was advertising for me then, and a chum I had with me had a notion of getting a couple quid out of him by writing a lot of silly nonsense in a letter. That lark did not come off, though. We had to clear out--and none too soon. But this time I’ve a chum waiting for me in London, and besides...” Bessie Carvil was breathing quickly. “What if I tried a knock at the door?” he suggested. “Try,” she said. Captain Hagberd’s gate squeaked, and the shadow of the son moved on, then stopped with another deep laugh in the throat, like the father’s, only soft and gentle, thrilling to the woman’s heart, awakening to her ears. “He isn’t frisky--is he? I would be afraid to lay hold of him. The chaps are always telling me I don’t know my own strength.” “He’s the most harmless creature that ever lived,” she interrupted. “You wouldn’t say so if you had seen him chasing me upstairs with a hard leather strap,” he said; “I haven’t forgotten it in sixteen years.” She got warm from head to foot under another soft, subdued laugh. At the rat-tat-tat of the knocker her heart flew into her mouth. “Hey, dad! Let me in. I am Harry, I am. Straight! Come back home a day too soon.” One of the windows upstairs ran up. “A grinning, information fellow,” said the voice of old Hagberd, up in the darkness. “Don’t you have anything to do with him. It will spoil everything.” She heard Harry Hagberd say, “Hallo, dad,” then a clanging clatter. The window rumbled down, and he stood before her again. “It’s just like old times. Nearly walloped the life out of me to stop me going away, and now I come back he throws a confounded shovel at my head to keep me out. It grazed my shoulder.” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t care,” he began, “only I spent my last shillings on the railway fare and my last twopence on a shave--out of respect for the old man.” “Are you really Harry Hagberd?” she asked. “Can you prove it?” “Can I prove it? Can any one else prove it?” he said jovially. “Prove with what? What do I want to prove? There isn’t a single corner in the world, barring England, perhaps, where you could not find some man, or more likely woman, that would remember me for Harry Hagberd. I am more like Harry Hagberd than any man alive; and I can prove it to you in a minute, if you will let me step inside your gate.” “Come in,” she said.