Lucy. My poor father! What shall I do? oh, who will aid us now? (Enter Bob, R., with fishing-pole, stumbles against Fred, who is kneeling.)
Bob. Just my luck! I beg your pardon. Why, Lucy!
Lucy. (Rushing to him.) Bob Winders, dear Bob, how glad I am to see you! (Throws her arm round his neck.)
Bob. Just my luck! Why, Lucy, I hardly knew you.
Fred. (Aside.) What sent him here at this time? (Aloud.) Bob, old boy, where did you drop from? (Gives his hand.)
Bob. Why, Fred, is it you, still fluttering round the old flame, hey? Where did I drop from? From the four quarters of the globe. I’ve been in England, France, Russia, everywhere, including California.
Fred. California!
Bob. Yes, California. It’s a fine place, California, the Golden State. Lots of gold to be got by digging; and, if you object to that, money can be easily got by signing your name to a slip of paper. Just before I left, a chap raised twelve thousand dollars by putting a name to a blank check. But it wasn’t his name; ’twas the name of Dunshaw & Co.: his was John Robinson. “O Robinson, how could you do so?”
Fred. It was discovered.
Bob. Of course it was. Robinson sloped; but he’ll be caught, he’ll be caught! Lucy, I see you are engaged. I’m going out to try the trout. I used to like the sport; and I rather think the trout liked me, for I never managed to hook many of them. Just my luck! Good-by!