Mrs. R. Thee knowed he wur going to die sometime, and thee knowed he hadn’t left the boy anything, and thee might a’ dropped me a hint. “Mrs. Rollitt,” thee might ha’ said, “thee’s only wasting good poultry on a worthless man. The old sinner’s a going to die as hard-fisted and ungrateful as he’s lived.” It would ’a’ been a neighbourly act o’ thee! Mr. P. (_Laughing._) But I didn’t know he wasn’t going to leave you anything. You see he died intestate. Mrs. R. In------ what? Mr. P. (_Rises._) Intestate. (_Deborah laughs a little._) Without leaving a will; he left nobody anything. Mrs. R. (_Rising._) Well, then, where does the old fool’s money go to? Mr. P. Why, to his son, of course! (_Cross to r. near chair, fireplace down stage._) Mrs. R. Ah, where be his son? Mr. P. (_Folding his knee in his hand and looking at her quietly._) On the road from Texas to Devon. (_Sits r._) Mrs. R. What! Thee don’t mean to say thee’ve found un! (_Deborah gets dish off dresser r. and puts it down in front of firm Mrs. R. in front of table r., Mrs. R. and Deborah draw near interested._) Mr. P. That’s just exactly what I do mean. We traced him at last--found him at Port Chadbourne black as a nigger and dressed as a red Indian. Mrs. R. What was he doing there--play-acting? Mr. P. No, cow-boy. (_Mrs. R. sits l. of table r._) Mrs. R. Lord love us all! and do un know? Mr. P. Yes, my agent saw him--went down to meet him as he came through with a drove of cattle, gave him my letters and told him everything. Mrs. R. Has he written to you? Mr. P. No, didn’t know how to write--a sort of half savage he seems to be, he and all his companions. He said he was going to give the boys a three days’ drink, or as he expressed it, “paint the town red,” and then start straight for home. Mrs. R. When do you expect him? Mr. P. Any day now; it was six weeks ago my agent saw him. He might walk into my office to-morrow morning. Mrs. R. Lor! to think o’ it all. Him running away--driven away, as a body might say, by ’is own father, when scarce more than a baby, and now coming back to all this money. When do ’ee expect un? Mr. P. To-morrow--in six months time--never! Mrs. R. Never! (_Purtwee rises, crosses to l._) Mr. P. Perhaps never. Mrs. R. Why I thought thee said he’d started. Mr. P. Started, yes; but there’s a long road between that and arriving. He may be dead and buried--drowned--murdered--for all we can tell. They’re a rough lot where he’s coming from. (_Takes coat off settle L. Feels for snuff box in pockets; rises; goes c._) Mrs. R. Well, thee’s picturing a nice fate for the lad. An’ who would the money all go to if he were gone? Mr. P. Why the next o’ kin of course! He isn’t married. Mrs. R. And who be the next of kin? Mr. P. (_Dryly._) Oh! there’s no need to worry about that now. Mrs R. Well, I’d just like to know, that’s all. Would it be any of the Leeds folk?