_The Scene is laid outside a village inn in that county of curious dialects, Loamshire. The inn is easily indicated by a round table bearing two mugs of liquid, while a fallen log emphasises the rural nature of the scene._ Gaffer Jarge _and_ Gaffer Willyum _are seated at the table, surrounded by a fringe of whisker_, Jarge _being slightly more of a gaffer than_ Willyum. ~Jarge~ (_who missed his dinner through nervousness and has been ordered to sustain himself with soup--as he puts down the steaming mug_). Eh, bor but this be rare beer. So it be. ~Willyum~ (_who had too much dinner and is now draining his liquid paraffin_). You be right, Gaffer Jarge. Her be main rare beer. (_He feels up his sleeve, but thinking better of it, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand._) Main rare beer, zo her be. (_Gagging._) Zure-lie. ~Jarge.~ Did I ever tell 'ee, bor, about t' new squoire o' these parts--him wot cum hum yesterday from furren lands? Gaffer Henry wor a-telling me. ~Willyum~ (_privately bored_). Thee didst tell 'un, lad, sartain sure thee didst. And Gaffer Henry, he didst tell 'un too. But tell 'un again. It du me good to hear 'un, zo it du. Zure-lie. ~Jarge.~ A rackun it be a main queer tale, queerer nor any them writing chaps tell about. It wor like this. (_Dropping into English, in his hurry to get his long speech over before he forgets it._) The old Squire had a daughter who disappeared when she was three weeks old, eighteen years ago. It was always thought she was stolen by somebody, and the Squire would have it that she was still alive. When he died a year ago he left the estate and all his money to a distant cousin in Australia, with the condition that if he did not discover the missing baby within twelve months everything was to go to the hospitals. (_Remembering his smock and whiskers with a start._) And here du be the last day, zo it be, and t' Squoire's daughter, her ain't found. ~Willyum~ (_puffing at a new and empty clay pipe_). Zure-lie. (Jarge, _a trifle jealous of_ Willyum's _gag, pulls out a similar pipe, but smokes it with the bowl upside down to show his independence_.) T' Squire's darter (Jarge _frowns_)--her bain't (Jarge _wishes he had thought of "bain't"_)--her bain't found. (_There is a dramatic pause, only broken by the prompter._) Her ud be little Rachel's age now, bor? ~Jarge~ (_reflectively_). Ay, ay. A main queer lass little Rachel du be. Her bain't like one of us. ~Willyum.~ Her do be that fond of zoap and water. (_Laughter._) ~Jarge~ (_leaving nothing to chance_). Happen she might be a real grand lady by birth, bor. _Enter_ Rachel, _beautifully dressed in the sort of costume in which one would go to a fancy-dress ball as a village maiden_.