Butts. Dead! My Bill dead!
Harry. Yes; it was my hand that closed his eyes, away off in the mines of California.
Butts. My boy dead!
Harry. He told me the story of his life. He loved a poor girl, and his father turned him out of doors.
Butts. She was a vile—
Harry. Stop, Butts! She was a pure, noble woman: her only fault was loving your scamp of a son. He married her. I have his word for it and the marriage-certificate. He married her nineteen years ago; took her to the little town of Elmer, fifteen miles from here. They had a child.
Butts. A child! I never heard of that.
Harry. Oh! you was too busy looking after rogues. You forgot your own scamp of a son. When the child was four years old, the mother died, broken-hearted; for your son was a villain. Bill determined to try his luck in California. But the child was an encumbrance that must be got rid of. So one dark night, Bill took her in his arms, and started for his father’s house, to leave her on the doorsteps. But Bill, not having led a virtuous life, was wanted by certain officers of the law. They tracked him. Bill found they were after him, and, with fatherly care, flung his offspring by the roadside, and fled. He died three months ago in California.
Butts. And the child?
Harry. Ah! the child is safe.