COLONEL LAWTON. I must have drawn up ten wills for the old gentleman, but he always tore 'em up. May I have a drink of his plum brandy, Frederik?
FREDERIK. Help yourself. Pastor?
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Er—er—
COLONEL LAWTON goes to the sideboard and pours out two drinks from a decanter. A heavy roll of thunder now ends in a sharp thunderclap. MRS. BATHOLOMMEY, who is entering the room, gives a cry and puts her hands over her face. COLONEL LAWTON bolts his whiskey. The REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY takes a glass and stands with it in his hand.
MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [Removing her hands in time to see the brandy.] Why,
Henry! What are you doing? Are your feet wet?
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. No, Rose; they're not. I want a drink and I'm going to take it. It's a bad night. [Drinks.
COLONEL LAWTON. [Throws a hickory log on the fire, which presently blazes up, making the room much lighter.] Go ahead, Frederik. [Sits.
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY has drawn up a chair for his wife, and now seats himself before the snapping hickory fire.
REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. I knew that your uncle would remember his friends and his charities. He was so liberal! One might say of him that he was the very soul of generosity. He gave in such a free-handed, princely fashion.
FREDERIK. [Reading in a businesslike manner.] For Mrs. Batholommey—