_Rowell._ They are not very much attached to it, Gaylie; for, not an hour ago, 'twas offered them on easy terms. _Gaylie._ Offered them, by you? _Rob._ Yes, Gaylie: on terms no honest man could for a moment consider. _Rowell._ I offer it again. Consider, Robert Trueworth, 'tis you who are driving your family from home. _Rob._ You have had your answer. Scoundrel! _Rowell._ That name again! _Rob._ Ay, again and again! Plead no more, Gaylie. Ask no favors for me or mine, of that man: even from your dear hands, I could never take the fair farm which he has polluted by ownership. _Rowell._ Robert Trueworth, you shall repent this. (_Comes close to him._) You are making me your enemy. _Rob._ I am satisfied. Better open war than false friendship with a heartless foe. _Gaylie._ No more of this, I beg. You have quarrelled. For my sake, be friends. _Mattie_ (R.). Silence, Gaylie! you know not what you ask. _Gaylie._ You too, Mattie? What means this mystery? (_They pass to_ R., _and converse in dumb show_. ROB _goes up stage, and passes round to back of his mother's chair, on which he leans, conversing with her, as_ HOSEA JENKS _enters, followed by_ HIRAM. CRIMP _runs to_ HIRAM, _and keeps him back, conversing in dumb show about_ "JIM;" CRIMP _going through pantomime, to convey an idea of an attack_. HOSEA _comes down_, C.) _Hosea_ (_speaks as he enters_). Oh, here you are, Rowell! I thought I should find you. I've just been down to the post-office. Poor Stamps has gone. He has distributed his last batch, and been transferred to the dead-letter office. Ha, ha, ha! that's a grave pun; but I can't help it; you know my weakness. _Crimp._ Weakness? am you got de lumbago, Massa Jinks? Golly! I had de rheumatiz awful, las' winter. Tell you what you do, Massa Jinks: you jis get a poorhouse plaster; only draw a quarter out ob yer pocket, and all de anguish out ob yer back. _Hosea._ Ha, Ha, Ha! he little understands my facetious humor. _Crimp._ Oh, humor! face itches; den clap it onto yer face. Draw out all de pain, and some ob yer cheek too. _Rob._ Crimp, be silent! _Crimp._ Ob course, ob course! I'm obleeged to you. _Rowell._ So Stamps is dead? _Hosea._ Yes: poor fellow, I grieve for him. Who can take his place?—I should say, his post. Postmaster, see? ha, ha, ha! There it is again! I can't help it. _Rowell._ Mr. Jenks, if you could contrive to drop this jesting humor— _Hosea._ But I can't. I try, but I can't drop it: it's a drop too much. Ha, ha, ha! _Crimp._ Ya, ya, ya! dat's good: de ole man's been drinking jes' a drop too much. _Rowell._ If I understand you, Mr. Jenks, you would be his successor. _Jenks._ That's just it. I know you have influence. See, here's an official envelope addressed to you, and from the war-office too.