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.