LON. Yuh swear yuh won't never tell? SETH [_raising his right hand_]. I swear. LON. Yuh won't never try an' make out I done it next time we run agin each other fur district school-inspector? SETH [_raising his right hand_]. I swear. 'Cause if I kin't have Pa's old place, no one kin. LON. Got matches? SETH. Yes. An' Pa's kerosene-can's got 'bout a pint in it. [_Takes the can from the bottom shelf._] LON. I may as wall take these papers along with me. [_Picks up the newspapers._] [_Seth moves to the table. Begins to fill his pipe. Lon takes his corncob from his pocket and coughs. Seth looks at Lon, meditates, then speaks._] SETH. Heve a smoke, Lon? LON. Maybe I will. [_Lon fills his pipe.--Seth strikes a match, lights his own pipe first, then hands the match to Lon._] SETH. We're brothers. LON. The same flesh an' blood has got t' treat each other right. [_Lon starts to put Seth's tobacco-pouch in his pocket, but Seth stops him._] SETH. An' we wouldn't be treatin' each other right if we let Pa's property come into Ma's hands. [_Seth carries the kerosene, Lon the papers. They go out the back door and disappear. Thus, in disgust and rage, the brothers are united. Then Seth's voice is heard._] SETH [_in the yard_]. Wait a minute, Lon. [_Seth returns. He picks up Pa's tobacco-pouch, knife and scissors, glances toward the door to see that Lon isn't watching, and sticks them into his pocket._] LON [_in the yard_]. What yuh doin', Seth? [_Appears at the door._] SETH. I thought I left somethin' valuable. But I ain't. [_He leaves._] [_Lon and Seth pass out of sight._] [_Curtain._] IN THE MORGUE A PLAY BY SADA COWAN Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. IN THE MORGUE is reprinted from "The Forum" by special permission of Miss Sada Cowan. Application for right of performing IN THE MORGUE must be made to Miss Sada Cowan, The Authors' League, New York City. IN THE MORGUE A PLAY BY SADA COWAN [PLACE: _In the morgue of a foreign city_.] [SCENE: _A small almost empty room with the rear wall of glass. Before this glass black curtains are drawn. An old man ... Caren ... sits at a low table, well forward, sorting and arranging papers, writing from time to time. A lamp upon the table, is so shaded as to concentrate the light and throws Caren's wicked face into sharp relief. The room conveys a feeling of unfriendliness, coldness and gloom. Caren is old, so old he is somewhat decrepit ... hard, shrill and tottering. His features are sharp, his fingers are as talons. He seems almost as a vulture ... perhaps for hovering too long among the unbeloved dead._] CAREN [_calling to some one behind the black curtain_]. What was the number of that last one? HELPER [_putting out his head_]. Thirteen. [_He disappears._] CAREN [_writes and repeats_]. Thirteen....