Mrs. H. Then what do you mean telling me he’s not got a motor car?
Chris. I said he hadn’t got one of his own. It’s his father’s. You don’t catch Nat Jeffcote parting with owt before his time. That’s how he holds his lad in check, as you might say.
Mrs. H. Alan Jeffcote’s seldom short of cash. He spends plenty.
Chris. Ay! Nat gives him what he asks for, and doesn’t want to know how he spends it either. But he’s got to ask for it first. Nat can stop supplies any time if he’s a mind.
Mrs. H. That’s likely, isn’t it?
Chris. Queerer things have happened. You don’t know Nat like I do. He’s a bad one to get across with.
(Another flash and gentle peal. Mrs. H. gets up.)
Mrs. H. I’ll light the gas.
(She pulls down the blind and lights the gas.)
Chris. When I met Nat this morning he told me that Alan had telegraphed from Llandudno on Saturday asking for twenty pounds.