Whi. Here’s news! My old man, the ugly old man who always went by the name of Tom Cobb——
O’Fi. Well, sorr?
Whi. He died last night! Poor ugly old Tom Cobb died last night.
Mat. We know all about it; we knew it half an hour ago.
Whi. Yes, Matilda, but you don’t know this: I went to his cottage this morning, and on the bed I found a hasty scrawled note written by the old man just before he died. (Colonel becomes interested.) It contained these words, “Look under the fireplace.” I got a crowbar, raised the hearth, and under it I found gold—gold,—silver and bank-notes in profusion! No end of gold—you could roll in it, you could roll in it! And he hasn’t a friend or relation in the world!
[Colonel O’Fipp, during the last few lines, has hurriedly snatched the will out of the fire, and smoothed it out, unobserved. He produces it with a dignified air.
Whi. What’s that?
O’Fi. This, sorr, is the poor old gintleman’s will, in which he leaves everything to my beloved daughter.
Whi. But that’s not old Tom Cobb’s will! That’s the will young Tom Cobb made in fun just now!