Bessie. Perhaps Captain Hagberd is not so mad as the town takes him for.

Carvil. (_Grimly_). Don't everybody know how he came here from the North
to wait till his missing son turns up--here--of all places in the world.
His boy that ran away to sea sixteen years ago and never did give a sign
of life since! Don't I remember seeing people dodge round corners out
of his way when he came along High Street. Seeing him, I tell you.
(_Groan_.) He bothered everybody so with his silly talk of his son being
sure to come back home--next year--next spring--next month------. What
is it by this time, hey?

Bessie. Why talk about it? He bothers no one now.

Carvil. No. They've grown too fly. You've got only to pass a remark on
his sail-cloth coat to make him shut up. All the town knows it. But he's
got you to listen to his crazy talk whenever he chooses. Don't I hear
you two at it, jabber, jabber, mumble, mumble------

Bessie. What is there so mad in keeping up hope?

Carvil (_Scathing scorn_). Not mad! Starving himself to lay money
by--for that son. Filling his house with furniture he won't let anyone
see--for that son. Advertising in the papers every week, these sixteen
years--for that son. Not mad! Boy, he calls him. Boy Harry. His boy
Harry. His lost boy Harry. Yah! Let him lose his sight to know what real
trouble means. And the boy--the man, I should say--must 've been put
away safe in Davy Jones's locker for many a year--drowned--food for
fishes--dead.... Stands to reason, or he would have been here before,
smelling around the old fool's money. (_Shakes Bessie's arm slightly_.)
Hey?