MURDER—AW THE MORTGAGE.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 170, 20 July 1935, Page 5 (Supplement)

MURDER—AW THE MORTGAGE.

SCENE. (The farmhouse kitchen. Mrs. Althorpe is peeling potatoes at a side bench. Marian is at the kitchen table, mixing a pudding in a basin. They work for a minute in silence; then—;

Marian: Mum, vte want some more baking powder, and some golden syrup. Mrs. A. (in the tone of one almost at the end of her tether): Yes, and we want some more flour, and some more rice, and some more 6iigar, and some more of everything, pretty well. What we want mdst of all is some more money, and where on earth we're going to get that heaven only knows. Marian (trying to cheer her): Oh, we'll win the art union next week, probably! Something's sure to turn up. Suppose I go and look for a (rold mine this afternoon? There ought to be gold in the gully by the river.

Mrs. A.: I wieli you wouldn't talk rubbish! It doesn't seem to worry you at all to think that in a month or so we'll probably be walking off the farm without a penny! It's not likely Mr. Frobisher will renew the mortgage when he knows we haven't any hope of paying it ever.

Marian' (she has the instinctive exuberance of youth and refuses to be made miserable by her mother's gloomy prognostication): But, mum, surely he'll renew the mortgage! Didn't the lawyer tell you he was awfully rich? And these days everyone knows how hard things are; he couldn't possibly —

Mrs. A. (snappishly): The richer a man is the meaner he is, it seems to me; and a man who's rich can't imagine how hard things are for poverty-stricken wretches like us. He'll never think. (A knock is heard at the back door, and she stops.)

• Marian (in a whisper): Bother! (She has just finished tying a cloth over the pudding basin and places it quickly in the boiler.)

Mrs. A.: You go,

(Marian opens the door and speaks to someone without. The voice of the visitor, but not the words he says, can be heard.)

Marian: Good morning.

(The voice is heard in a murmur.) Marian: Oh, I'll see. Just a moment. (She turns to her mother.) Mum, it's a man who says he's walked miles and hasn't had any-

A Play by ELSA FLAVELL. CHARACTERS: Mrs. Althorpe A Farmer's ' Wife. Marian Althorpe Fanners Daughte.. Rix Althorpe F " mer r s S °"; Mr. .Althorpe Tll « Farmer The Tramp. The Policeman.

thing to eat for a whole (lay, and could we give him something? He s willing to do some odd job about the place for us. (She is speaking in a lowered voice.)

Mrs. A.: Oh. (She goes to the door.) Good morning!

(The voice murmurs again—the tramp is repeating his request.)

Mrs. A.: Well, I expect we can find something for you to eat, though it mightn't be much. Still, if you're as hungry as all that, I suppose you could eat pretty well anything. (She holds the door open and the tramp advances into the room. He is revealed as a rather short, stout little man with a bald head fringed with grey. He has pale blue eyes and a drooping grey moustache. He has a certain air of respectability which somewhat belies the effect of his shabby grey suit and the battered checked cap he holds in his hand.)

Tramp: Anything you like to give me; but not unless you let me do some work to pay for it. Mrs. A.: Oh, you can chop up a bit of wood if you like. Looking for work, are you? How long have you been on the roads 1

Tramp: About a month now. I did have a week's work cutting out gorse. Since then I've got along just by doing odd jobs to pay for my meals.

Mrs. A. (making a clicking noise with her tongue, expressive of sympathy): It must be a pretty awful life. Still it's pretty difficult for all of 116 now (with an air of resignation). I was just saying to Marian that I didn't know how on earth we were going to make ends meet. We always seem to be wanting something or other, and there's never any money anywhere. I wish to goodness Jim had been a sheep farmer, and we might have had some hope of having our mortgage renewed. With butter going down and down, and no prospects of ever making any money, it's not likely we'll# get it renewed now.

(While this conversation has been taking place Marian has rapidly removed the pudding to the stove and the other things she has been using to their places in the kitchen cupboard; and she has placed on the table plates, bread, butter, scones, etc., for the tramp.) Mrs. A.: Anyway, sit down and make a start while Marian makes the tea. There's water boiling in the big kettle, Mariam.

Tramp (he sits down and falls to with a relish): Thanks.

(Mrs. A. goes back to peeling the potatoes. Marian malfes the tea and proceeds to pour it out.)

Marian • Sugar ? Tramp: Yes, thanks. Marian: And milk? Tramp: Just a little. Marian: I'm afraid it's a bit

strong. Tramp: J.ust how 1 like it, thank you. Mrs. A. to Marian: You'd better go and do out the sitting room, Marian. It's fearfully dusty. (Marian goes out by the door leading into the further regions of the house.) (Silence for a minute or so; then:) Tramp (he has been eating heartily): There's nothing I like better than good, big, honest, homemade scones with salty yellow butter and 'honey. Nothing they give you at the biggest restaurants and hotels can equal them. Mrs. A.: Oh? (with the tone of one who would say, "Ana how do you know?") Tramp (hastily): Of course, its a good long while since I was in any such place. There was a time (shaking his head with an air of regretful reminiscence) when I spent my life travelling from hotel to hotel. Yes; I've been a great traveller in my day. Mrs. A. (a trifle scornfully): Is that what happened to your money? Tramp: 13r —er —well, I lost most of it in a big investment that seemed to promise wonderful things —but it proved an absolute failure. Mrs. A.: Something like th'ese National Trust affairs ?

Tramp: Well —er —yes, something of the sort, I suppose. (Mrs. A. looks at the back of his head with a questioning frown which, rightly interpreted, means, "Suppose? Surely you know what became of your own money?" Then she goes on with her potato peeling.) (Pause. The tramp goes on eating.) Mrs. A.: Well, in a few weeks' time we can expect to be in your position, too. it seems to me. Tramp: Don't say that. Mrs. A.: Well, we will, unless something unforeseen happens and we can pay off the mortgage. Tramp:, Surely the mortgagee will renew it? Everyone understands how things are these days.

Mrs. A. (shaking her head gloomily): I don't know that everyone does. Some people are so rich themselves that they don't know what it's like to be poor, and wouldn't have any pity on us. Anyway, what's the use of renewing the mortgage? We'll never be able to pay it. I don't believe butter will ever go up.

Tramp: Oh, surely, surely! Mrs. A.: Of course, it all depends on Mr. Frobisher. He's our mortgagee. We don't know much about liim —the whole affair was managed by the lawyer; my husband's seen him once. They say he has pots of money, and he's a bit eccentric. (The tramp is suddenly seized by a fit of coughing, much to the lady's alarm. It passes, however, and she continues tranquilly.) He writes short stories,

and poems, and even novels, so I suppose he' must be a bit 1 queer. All writers have a kink, it seems to me.

Tramp: I have heard others say the same thing. (Goes on stolidly eating.)

Mrs. A.: He might be quite a benevolent old soul; some eccentric people are. Of course, everything depends on the way it takes him. Tramp: Yes; of course. He might have, as you express it, a kink for benevolence, and he might not.

Mrs. A.: Exactly. We've just got to hope for the best. I suppose. (She sighs.) But 1 certainly expect the worst.

'Tramp (rising): Well, it's a funny world! You never know your luck. Here was I starving a while ago, after being turned away from three houses one after the other. Take mv advice and keep on hoping! Now, may I be directed to the wood heap: Thank you for your hospitality. I've enjoyed myself immensely. (Mrs. A. opens the back door and they go out together. Mrs. A. stands just outside the door and calls directions to the tramp.)

Mrs. A.: The wood's just under the pine trees there —yes, that's right, just through the gate —you'll find an axe beside the heap. Cut up half a dozen of those big pieces and that'll do. (She enters the kitchen again.) (Enter Marian from the house.) Marian: Have you sent him to chop some wood? I wonder how much he'll do before he sneaks off? Mrs. A.: Oh, he'll do it all right, I think. Seems rather a decent old sort. (She is putting the saucepan full of potatoes on the stove.) Go and throw the peelings on the rubbish heap, will you? I'll have to get a move on oi* the dinner will never be cooked. (Exit Marian.) Mrs. A. starts to clear the things off the table.) (Re-enter Marian. She pauses at the door and looks back.) Marian: What on earth's the matter? Here comes Rix on the horse, "alloping as fast as he can go. Mrs. A.: Surely nothing's happened to dad? Marian: I don't suppose so—unless he's torn his hand on the barbed wire. That's all that could happen to them while thpy were repairing that fence. Mrs. A.: He might have torn his hand pretty badly. Barbed wire can be pretty "dangerous! Marian (calling to her brother): Rix, what's happened? He can't hear me.

Mrs. A.: Quick, get some bandage 3 so's we'll be ready. Where are they! Marian: I put them in the cupboard—at the bottom shelf. (She comes in and they search hurriedly.)

(Enter Rix. He is a youth of some 19 years, a year or two older than his sister. He bursts in, dishevelled and out of breath.) Marian: What is it? Mrs. A.: What's happened? Rix: At Blackmore's —you —know that man they had there workinglie's dead —murdered? Mrs. A.: Murdered? (To be continued.) —