To-morrow | Page 4

had been
at his heels; and the only thing that brought him down was a letter--a
hoax probably. Some joker had written to him about a seafaring man
with some such name who was sup- posed to be hanging about some
girl or other, either in Colebrook or in the neighbourhood. "Funny, ain't
it?" The old chap had been advertising in the London papers for Harry
Hagberd, and offer- ing rewards for any sort of likely information. And
the barber would go on to describe with sar- donic gusto, how that
stranger in mourning had been seen exploring the country, in carts, on
foot, taking everybody into his confidence, visiting all the inns and
alehouses for miles around, stopping people on the road with his
questions, looking into the very ditches almost; first in the greatest
excite- ment, then with a plodding sort of perseverance, growing slower
and slower; and he could not even tell you plainly how his son looked.
The sailor was supposed to be one of two that had left a tim- ber ship,
and to have been seen dangling after some girl; but the old man
described a boy of fourteen or so--"a clever-looking, high-spirited boy."
And when people only smiled at this he would rub his forehead in a
confused sort of way before he slunk off, looking offended. He found
nobody, of course; not a trace of anybody--never heard of anything
worth belief, at any rate; but he had not been able somehow to tear
himself away from Cole- brook.
"It was the shock of this disappointment, per- haps, coming soon after
the loss of his wife, that had driven him crazy on that point," the barber
suggested, with an air of great psychological in- sight. After a time the
old man abandoned the ac- tive search. His son had evidently gone
away; but he settled himself to wait. His son had been once at least in
Colebrook in preference to his na- tive place. There must have been
some reason for it, he seemed to think, some very powerful induce-
ment, that would bring him back to Colebrook again.

"Ha, ha, ha! Why, of course, Colebrook. Where else? That's the only
place in the United Kingdom for your long-lost sons. So he sold up his
old home in Colchester, and down he comes here. Well, it's a craze,
like any other. Wouldn't catch me going crazy over any of my
youngsters clear- ing out. I've got eight of them at home." The barber
was showing off his strength of mind in the midst of a laughter that
shook the tap-room.
Strange, though, that sort of thing, he would confess, with the frankness
of a superior intelli- gence, seemed to be catching. His establishment,
for instance, was near the harbour, and whenever a sailorman came in
for a hair-cut or a shave--if it was a strange face he couldn't help
thinking di- rectly, "Suppose he's the son of old Hagberd!" He laughed
at himself for it. It was a strong craze. He could remember the time
when the whole town was full of it. But he had his hopes of the old
chap yet. He would cure him by a course of judicious chaffing. He was
watching the progress of the treatment. Next week--next month--next
year! When the old skipper had put off the date of that return till next
year, he would be well on his way to not saying any more about it. In
other matters he was quite rational, so this, too, was bound to come.
Such was the barber's firm opin- ion.
Nobody had ever contradicted him; his own hair had gone grey since
that time, and Captain Hag- berd's beard had turned quite white, and
had ac- quired a majestic flow over the No. 1 canvas suit, which he had
made for himself secretly with tarred twine, and had assumed suddenly,
coming out in it one fine morning, whereas the evening before he had
been seen going home in his mourning of broadcloth. It caused a
sensation in the High Street--shopkeepers coming to their doors, people
in the houses snatching up their hats to run out-- a stir at which he
seemed strangely surprised at first, and then scared; but his only answer
to the wondering questions was that startled and evasive, "For the
present."
That sensation had been forgotten, long ago; and Captain Hagberd
himself, if not forgotten, had come to be disregarded--the penalty of
daili- ness--as the sun itself is disregarded unless it makes its power felt

heavily. Captain Hagberd's movements showed no infirmity: he walked
stiffly in his suit of canvas, a quaint and remarkable fig- ure; only his
eyes wandered more furtively perhaps than of yore. His manner abroad
had lost its ex- citable watchfulness; it had