Bill Porter
Date: 2024-12-29T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Henry; O.; 1862-1910 -- Drama

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Bill Porter

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Bill Porter

A drama of O. Henry in prison

Author: Upton Sinclair

Release date: December 29, 2024 [eBook #74989]

Language: English

Original publication: Pasadena, CA: self-published, 1925

Credits: Tim Lindell, Chris Hapka and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BILL PORTER ***

BILL PORTER

A Drama of O. Henry in Prison

BY

UPTON SINCLAIR

PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR

PASADENA, CALIFORNIA

COPYRIGHT, 1925

BY UPTON SINCLAIR

All rights reserved in all countries including the Scandinavian

For rights of production address the Author

Printed in the United States of America

FOREWORD

The central figure of this play is the writer of short stories known to all the world as O. Henry. His name was William Sydney Porter; “Bill” Porter to his intimates in the Ohio State Penitentiary, where, beginning at the age of thirty-six, he served a sentence of three years and three months for embezzlement of national bank funds.

This play follows, as literally as possible, the facts concerning “Bill” Porter’s life and behavior in prison, as revealed in his letters and other published records. The writer of the play has had the advantage of much conversation with Al Jennings, who was Porter’s intimate both in prison and previously in Central America, where they had sought refuge from the law. Mr. Jennings, who appears as a character in this play, has been good enough to go over the manuscript, and the author here pays tribute to the kindness and genial spirit of an ex-train bandit, ex-convict, ex-lawyer, ex-evangelist, and almost successful candidate for governor of Oklahoma. Mr. Jennings has written a book, “Through the Shadows with O. Henry,” published by the H. K. Fly Company, also by the A. L. Burt Company.

This play deals with the soul of a creative artist, working despite ill fortune. Throughout the play there has been employed a convention additional to those customary on our stage. Whenever colored lighting is used, the scenes beheld and the characters appearing are not real, but are the children of “Bill” Porter’s brain. They may be persons who have previously appeared as real, but they are now present in the thoughts of the hero. In this form they change, they assume new personalities and take on new roles, in the magic chemistry of art. Let no one be puzzled because these artist imaginings mix up all times and places, the past and the present, the living and the dead; for that is the way of the imagination. The play tries to show a writer at work; how he takes the experiences of his life, and revises and reshapes them according to his temperament.

The stories of O. Henry alluded to in the play are as follows: Act I, “A Municipal Report,” from the volume “Strictly Business”; Act II, “A Retrieved Reformation,” from the volume “Roads of Destiny”—a story better known by the title of the play which was made from it, “Alias Jimmie Valentine”; Act III, “Holding up a Train,” “Makes the Whole World Kin,” and “The Day We Celebrate,” from “Sixes and Sevens,” and “The Fourth in Salvador,” from “Roads of Destiny”; Act IV, “The Guardian of the Accolade,” from “Roads of Destiny,” and “An Unfinished Story,” from “The Four Million.”

Scene: State Penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.

Time: 1899.

Act. I: The drug-store of the prison hospital.

Act. II: The same.

Act. III: The postoffice of the prison.

Act. IV: The drug-store again.

CHARACTERS.

Biggins | pickpocket
Bill Porter | night drug-clerk of the prison hospital
Purzon | swindler
Joe | Negro trusty
Margaret | Porter’s little daughter
Athol | Porter’s deceased wife
Espiritu de la Vina | Porter’s temptation
Dr. Walters | night physician of the prison
Al Jennings | train-bandit
The Judge | of “Bankers’ Row”
Delacour | of the same
Jimmie Valentine | cracksman
Raidler | the Oklahoma terror
General Dingo | of the Salvador revolution
Dulcie | the little shop-girl

BILL PORTER

ACT I.

Scene: The drug-store of the prison hospital.

A long counter runs all the way across the stage, from right to left, at the back part of the stage. On the far side of the counter, away from the audience, the convicts file by, entering at the right and going off at the left, having their orders for drugs filled by the clerk. On the side of the counter nearest to the audience is the portion of the room in which the drugs and supplies are kept, and in which the clerk works. This portion has an entrance at right, to the hospital, and one at the left, to a hall. At right center is a flat-topped desk, with a chair facing left; another chair on the other side of the desk. All the way under the counter, and along the walls at right and left, are rows of shelves occupied by boxes and bottles large and small, as in an ordinary drug-store. These shelves turn upon pivots, making possible a quick change of the room, at the end of Act II and of Act IV, into a bank.

At rise: Those convicts who have listed themselves as sick are getting their evening supply of drugs. They file along from right to left, hard-faced, desolate looking men both white and black, clad in the old-fashioned black and white striped convict suits. They shove bits of paper over the counter, and take their pills or powders, for the most part silently, sometimes with a grunt or a growl. A guard stands by the door, watching them, a club in his hand; the guard wearing blue uniform with brass buttons.

Bill Porter, the night drug-clerk on duty, takes the prescriptions and fills them silently and swiftly; they are all standard prescriptions, which he has ready mixed and measured, and for the most part all he does is to shove out two or three pills, or a powder folded up in blue paper. He is a smooth-shaven, fair-haired man of thirty-seven, not stout but well filled out, benevolent, but reserved in manner. He wears a white hospital costume, clean, but old and worn. The Negro, Joe, a trusty, is puttering about the place, making a pretense at dusting off the contents of the shelves with a rag. He wears a dingy grey uniform, with black stripe down the trousers.

Biggins (next to the last man in the line; a lean, wiry street-rat and pickpocket; he talks out of the corner of his mouth, so that the guard will not detect him): Say, Buddy, can’t yer give us somethin’ different from these here white pills?

Porter: I am filling your prescription.

Biggins: Well, can’t yer wait till yer make yer rounds, an give us somethin’ else?

Porter: If you want me to prescribe for you, you’ll have to apply when I’m making my rounds.

Biggins: Thanks, Buddy, fer the tip. The croaker’s been t’rowin’ dese here white bullets down me troat fer a month now—

Purzon (the last convict in the line; a big man, broad, beefy-faced, noisy, who has passed worthless checks by posing as a ranchman): Cheer up, kid, there’s nothin’ in ’em but a lump of dough. (he hands over his slip of paper, and receives a couple of pills). Don’t I get a powder too? The croaker said I should.

Porter: He didn’t write it down.

Purzon: Well, for God’s sake, what kind of a deal is that? He told me I was to have digitalis.

Porter: There’s digitalis in one of those pills.

Purzon: Well, they look exactly alike! A fat lot they care what they feed you in this joint—that bonehead croaker don’t take as much trouble as if he was keepin’ dogs.

Porter (sternly): Move along now. If you have any quarrel with the doctor, say it to him.

Purzon (snarling): Ah, you fat stool-pigeon!

Porter: Move on! I’ve never yet reported a man in this place, but I’m not paid to listen to you abuse my chief.

(The guard, noticing the talk, approaches and pokes Purzon roughly with his stick; the last of the line moves off.)

Joe (coming forward, humbly; a large, athletic-looking black fellow, in the thirties): Please, suh, Misteh Porteh, could you gimme a little tention befo you shuts up de boxes?

Porter: What is it?

Joe: Ah got what you might call a little inclination to de constipulation, an Ah could use a couple of dem double-barrel shotgun shells. (as Porter shoves him a couple of pills) Thankee, boss. (he resumes his pretense at dusting, and Porter puts the covers on his boxes, and goes to his desk with a weary sigh) Ah bet you is tahd when you gets done wid dat line. (silence) Dey mussa been two hundred men in dat line dis evenin. Dey keeps a comin an a comin, an it doan seem to do em no good. (he is inviting conversation, but Porter sits at his desk lost in thought) Misteh Porteh—

Porter: Well?

Joe: Dey sho is a lot of misery in dis place.

Porter: There is.

Joe: Dey sho is one mountain of misery in dis place!

Porter (looks at papers on his desk, crumples them up into a ball, and makes as if to throw them into a wire trash-basket, which stands at the side of his desk nearest to the audience; he discovers that the basket is full to overflowing): See here, don’t you remember my saying anything to you about keeping a little room at least on the top of this trash-basket?

Joe: Yes, boss, dasso. Ah’s powerful fogetful; but you does sho fill up dat trash-basket! Seems like you spen de whole night writin paper an tearin it up.

Porter: Have they made you custodian of the hospital stationery?

Joe: No, boss, Ah’s only de custodian of de hospital trash-baskets. But if yo jes wouldn’t roll em up into balls, so dey fill up so much room! If you wouldn’t tear em into little bits, so dey spill out through de holes!

Porter: I don’t care to have my writings read in this place.

Joe: Yes, boss, Ah understan; but make yoself easy—Ah cant read a line of his hyar hanwritin.

Porter: Well, save me the job of nagging.

Joe: Yes, boss, Ah sho try. But you know how it is, if Ah was a first-class rememberin niggeh, I wouldn’t be doin a term in de Ohio State penitentiary, Ah’d be a spick and span porteh in a Pullman car, jing-jinglin de quartehs in mah pocket. (imitating car porter) Nashville de nex stop, suh! Brush you off, suh?

Porter: Quit your chatter and get out of here!

(Joe takes trash-basket and runs; Porter takes mail from pocket and glances at letter; then sits in attitude of despair, his head in his hands. Joe returns with empty basket, and begins to make a pretense of sweeping the floor with a broom, at the same time peering at Porter, trying to see his face.)

Porter (without looking up): Wouldn’t it be possible for you to get this room swept before I come on duty?

Joe: Misteh Porteh, you dunno how dey keep me on de jump in dis place—

Porter: They seem to turn you loose at this precise hour every evening, so you can come in and fill my lungs with dust.

Joe: Ah’ll jes keep a sorteh circulatin roun wid dis broom, so de capn think Ah’m workin if he comes, but Ah wont make dust enough to botheh you. (Porter continues to sit in attitude of dejection; Joe manifests first curiosity, then sympathy; he tries to attract attention) Ah-hum! (Porter does not look up) Ah-hum!

Porter: What is it, Joe?

Joe: Misteh Porteh—

Porter: Well?

Joe: Ah’s got somethin else besides dis hyar constipulation.

Porter: What you got?

Joe: Ah’s got somethin—you might call it a sorteh constipulation of de vocabulary.

Porter: How’s that?

Joe: Ah wuks roun dis hispital, an Ah keeps mah eyes open, an Ah sees Misteh Porteh doan say much to nobody in dis place. Ah thinks it oveh, an Ah thinks maybe he’d like it if Ah was to come up an say, right still and quaht: Misteh Porteh, Ah’s jes a niggeh.

Porter: Indeed, Joe!

Joe: Dey got me in de penitentiary in de state of Ohio, Misteh Porteh, but Ah was raised down in Tennessee, an Ah knows what a genleman is; so Ah comes to you an says: Ah’s a niggeh.

Porter: Well, Joe, I’m glad you spoke. I won’t be so lonesome!

Joe: Ah wants you to know, Misteh Porteh, it warnt makin no trouble fo white folks what got me in his place. It was a black man what Ah cut. Ah had a little yellah gal, an dat niggeh hadnt no business to be foolin wid her. Ah wouldn’t a done him no real harm, if it hadnt been dat he come on me so quick, Ah didn’t have a chance to bend mah razor back. You knows how it is wid razors?

Porter: No, Joe, I don’t think I ever fought with razors.

Joe: Well, you bends him back, all de way roun, an den you only got bout a half inch of blade, an he doan cut so deep, you cant do no real harm. But Ah mos cut dat black man’s neck through, so de jedge, he give it to me hard. Ah says to him, Jedge, if you knowed what Ah knows bout dat niggeh, you’d pay me fo service to de state of Ohio. But it was a Yankee jedge, an he doan smile.

Porter: He gave you life?

Joe: Not dat bad—twenty years. Ah reckons to git six years an eight months off fo good behavior—an den, Misteh Porteh, Ah’s goin back to de good ole state of Tennessee. Dey got me up hyar to work in de steel mills—Ah thought Ah’d make some money an buy me a tater patch an a mule; but Ah’s goin back home, wha dey knows what a genleman is. You comes from de South, Misteh Porteh?

Porter: North Carolina.

Joe: Ah knowed it! Dey was somethin in de way you looked at me. Mah ole daddy belonged to de Jedge Adair famly. You ever heah of de Judge Adair famly in Nashville? Ah lak to tell you bout dat famly, Misteh Porteh, den you see Ah knows what a genleman is, an how to talk to em.

Porter: Sit down, Joe.

Joe: Naw, suh, Ah reckon Ah keep circulatin dis hyar broom roun jes a bit—de capn he might come a driftin in hyar, an you knows how it is, Ah doan take no littlest chance fo to lose mah job as trusty—Ah wants to spend dem extra six years an eight months in de state of Tennessee, an not in de state of Ohio. Well, de Jedge Adair famly was one of de tip-top families, dey was sho nuff quality. But den de wah come, an you know how de Yankees come to Nashville, an de slaves was free. Mah ole daddy wanted to stick by de famly, but dey couldn’t keep him, dey didn’t have enough to eat fo dem selves. De Jedge he died, an dey was only Miss Azalea Adair lef, an dey was dis fine ole mansion all fallin in ruins, an dis fine lady livin in it an not enough to eat. She done married a man—he jes married her fo to live off what he thought she had, an when she doan have no money he curse her an he strike her—yes, Misteh Porteh, an you knows what would be goin on in de heart of an old slave what was raised in de famly, an knowin things was goin on like dat, an Miss Azalea Adair so proud, an hidin it all from de world. Well, mah ole daddy he got out an work fo de Yankees and save up an buy him a hack an a horse, an he drive, an make a little money, an when he know Miss Azalea Adair not have anything to eat, he take her a dollar or two. An den Major Caswell—dat’s de husban’s name—he find out she got dat money, an he take it away from her, so he kin go down an show off in de bar-room of de big hotel, struttin roun an treatin all de genlemen what he know. You ever hear anything like dat in de South, Misteh Porteh?

Porter: No, I can’t say I ever did.

Joe: Well, Miss Azalea Adair she try all de time to find some way to earn money. Dey had a great liberry in de house, an she read all dem books, an got dem in her haid, an she begin to write. Of course, de editors up Noth, day was glad to git what a great lady like Miss Azalea Adair write, so dey sent a man down from New Yok fo to see her an pay her money, an git her to sen some mo writin. An mah ole daddy, he was de hackman what met dat Yankee man, an drove him to Miss Azalea Adair’s home. It was a ole hack, de horse was so weak he could hardly stagger—cause you see how it was, all de money what de fares brung in had to go to keep Miss Azalea Adair alive. Well, dat Yankee man, he pay Miss Azalea Adair fifty dollars fo what she write, an den he go away. An Major Caswell—dat’s de husban—he find out she got dat money, an he grab her by de wrist an twist it till she mos faint—she too proud to make a soun, you know—an he take dat money an sneak off. Mah old daddy, he peek through de do an he see dat happen. He take de kitchen knife an sneak out an folleh de Major—it was in de night, an black dark—an he stab him through an kill him an take de money. Yes, suh, he was a white man, too, but dis ole niggeh slave, he kill him.

Porter: And did they catch him?

Joe: Mah old daddy? Naw, suh, boss, dey doan ketch him, he die in his bed wid de preacher prayin oveh him an de angels a waitin fo his soul. Maybe de police have some idea what happen, but dey wasn’t anbody care much bout dat ornery Major Caswell. An Miss Azalea Adair course she doan never speculate nothin, cause my ole man he doan take her dat fifty dollars all to onst, he jes kinds string it out, one or two dollars when he see day warnt nothin in de pantry.

Porter: What a story! What a story! And you say—by George! You say that happened in Nashville?

Joe: Yes, Misteh Porteh.

Porter: Well, now, that’s a funny thing. I was reading the other day—here, I think I have it in these magazines—here’s a fellow who says you couldn’t tell an interesting story about Nashville, Tennessee!

Joe: What’s de matter wid Nashville?

Porter: He thinks it’s too slow, too old-fashioned. Here’s what he says. (reads) “Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States that are ‘story cities’—New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco.”

Joe: Well, Ah doan know nothin bout books, Misteh Porteh—

Porter: I know a little, and hope to know more. I’m writing some stories, and maybe some day I’ll write that story about Miss Azalea Adair. Is she dead?

Joe: Yes, suh, dey all daid.

Porter: I’ll quote that fellow who says you couldn’t write about Nashville, Tennessee. I tell you Joe, you can write about any place where human beings live—provided you know how to get into their hearts and report what’s going on there; it doesn’t matter who they are—white or black—or where they are—in jail, or in Nashville. A story is a report on human hearts. I’ll call this one “A Municipal Report”; quote the statistics about Nashville—all the commonplace things, and then tell how I go there, and run into the old hackman that was once a slave, and drives his tumble-down old rig to earn a dollar, to buy food for his starving mistress in the mansion! I can make them cry over that! (a pause)

Joe: Misteh Porteh.

Porter: Well?

Joe: Somethin—Ah dunno if Ah’d ought to say it. Ah was in dis room las night, when you got through wid sewin up dat feller wid de busted haid—an you was all alone—leastways you thought you was, an Ah didn’t like to make no noise. (a pause) Ah like to say dis, Misteh Porteh, you doan have to feel shamed—dey’s lots o fellers cryin in dis place. (a pause) Dey gits you locked up, an yo cell-mate’s snorin—oh, den de tears come a runnin onto de pillow. You know, Misteh Porteh, dey was a little kinky headed yalleh baby, de prettiest little thing you ever see; Ah thinks what become of him, maybe he’s crying tonight cause he doan get enough to eat—it jes seem like mo’n Ah can stan.

Porter: You were married, then?

Joe: Naw suh, we wasn zacly married—dis was a kindeh what you might say engagement baby. (grins) But Ah guess Ah done loss dat yelleh gal fo keeps now, she doan write to me, Ah reckon she got some new felleh. (a pause) You got folks outside, Misteh Porteh?

Porter: I’ve got a little girl.

Joe: Sho nuff? Well, now! How ole dat little gal?

Porter: Eleven.

Joe: Her mammy daid?

Porter: Yes.

Joe: Dat’s hard! Dat’s sho nuff hard, Misteh Porteh! She got folks takin care of her?

Porter: She lives with her grandparents.

Joe: Ah wondeh, is you got a picture of dat chile?

Porter: Yes, I have. (he opens drawer of desk and hands a photograph to Joe)

Joe: Dat’s a pretty little gal! A sho nuff sweet chile! What dey call her, Misteh Porteh?

Porter: Margaret’s her name.

Joe: Margaret. Dat’s a right nice-soundin name. Ah doan wondeh you miss dat little lily. Do she know whah her pappy is?

Porter: She has no idea.

Joe: Oh, doan you let nobody tell her, Misteh Porteh!

Porter: Never until I tell her with my own lips.

Joe: Dat’s right, dat’s right! She’ll believe what her pappy tells her. Ah bet it ain’t so bad as some folks made it look like.

Porter: That is a question I never discuss with anyone in this place.

Joe: Ah understan you, boss. Ah reckon you aint showed dis hyar picture to many. But when a genleman from de South talk wid a niggeh, it’s like he was a chile, talkin to his black mammy. Dat little Miss Margaret got a ole mammy what take care of her?

Porter: Yes, Joe. (he puts away photograph) Every night I sit here and write, and all the time I’m thinking of one thing, to get enough money to send Margaret a present at Christmas. I didn’t have anything for her birthday, and I’m sure not going to fail again! Miss Azalea Adair will help me out.

Joe: She’d a liked dat first rate, Misteh Porteh.

Porter: What did she look like?

Joe: She had white hair, an her dresses was old, but de laundrin was new; a little lady, hardly anything to her; gentle an quaht—you know what dem Southern ladies is.

Porter: And your old daddy, tell me about him.

Joe: He was a big black man, big as me; proud feller, his grandaddy was a king in de Congo. Yes, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, you needn’t laugh, dat’s a fact; dey was lots o great men captured an sold to be slaves. Uncle Caesar, dey call him, an he wore a long coat like de ginrals in Ginral Lee’s army. It was ole and patched, an de rain had washed it an de sun had faded it, but you could see it was a ginral’s coat—gold lace an tassels on it, an when dey was all gone, mah ole daddy he was boun to show it was a ginral’s coat, so he had mah mammy sew on rope to make loops an tassels an eppilets an things. An he would have to git himself tied up in it wid twine, cause all de buttons was gone, only one las button up near de top, a fine yelleh button, big as a half dollar. Yes suh, dat was a sho fine coat—Ah reckon mah ole daddy he wear it befo de throne of grace, cause dey done buried him in it. He stan by de do’ of de hack, wid his whip in one han an a ole feather duster in de odder, an he make like to dust off de seat of de hack, an he say: “Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar you anywhere in de town fo fifty cents.” He sho knew how to git de money out of genlemen.

Porter: I know, I’ve had them operate on me. I can see a whole mob of them, lined up in front of a depot; they come charging at you—like a race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with whips.

Joe: Jes so, boss; jes so!

Porter: Uncle Caesar, as you describe him, might be the old hackman who drove me and Miss Athol Estes, that summer night when we ran away to get married. I was afraid the old hack would fall to pieces at the next bump. We hadn’t very far to go—for Miss Athol sang in the choir of the Presbyterian church, and the minister was good enough to marry us. One thing more; tell me what Major Caswell looked like.

Joe: De Major? He was one of dese fellers dat hunt roun in a hotel lobby, like a starved dog lookin fo a bone. He would hit a spittoon wid a squirt of tobacco juice farther’n any man in de place. He was always fightin de war oveh—I heerd de Judge tell him once, he was one of dese perfessional Southerners. He had a big face, kindeh red an pulpy-like, an sleepy. I tell you who he look like, dat convict feller what was cursin at de doctor jes now. You could take him fo de Major on a dark night. (a voice calling, off-stage right: “Joe!”) Da’s de capn! (calls) Yes, boss!

Porter: See here, you black-skinned rascal, if you tell anybody what we’ve been talking about, I’ll take the ebony hide off you!

Joe (grins): Naw, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, Ah knows mah place. Us Southerners got to stan together. You lemme be yo body-servant, Ah take care of you like you belonged to de Jedge Adair famly! (moves reluctantly towards exit) You was in de drug business befo you come hyar, Misteh Porteh?

Porter: When I was a lad I worked five years in my uncle’s drug-store.

Joe: Ah bet you like to member dem days!

Porter: It was the little town of Greensboro. You know how it is down South in the springtime, the sweet odor of the honeysuckle, and the mocking-birds singing; this time in the evening there’s chairs in front of the store, and the girls come in their white muslin dresses, and the perfumes you sold them yesterday now make you kind of drunk while you’re squirting out vanilla and strawberry flavors! And Babe Harmony, clerk to the justice of the peace, has fetched his old guitar. (faint sound of music: “Carry me back to old Virginny.”) He’s singing wha de cotton and de golden taters grow—

Joe (waving his hands): Oh, Misteh Porteh, doan tell me bout dem things, you make me spen de whole night cryin! Ah got to hustle, boss, Ah dassn linger, Ah doan want to spen dem extra six years an eight months in de state of Ohio! (runs off right; the music continues faintly)

Porter (sits at desk, in meditation): A Municipal Report. Nashville, Tennessee. What have I got about Nashville? That old atlas, perhaps! (digs out atlas from under a pile of books) T-E—Tennessee—Nashville. (reading slowly) “Nashville, a city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River, and on the N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most important educational center in the South.” Umm‑m‑m‑. “Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centers of the country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods, grocery and drug business.” That’s bully! (sits lost in thought; gradually the lights shift to pale violet color) Uncle Caesar! His grandaddy was a king in the Congo! (Uncle Caesar enters at right, silently, like a ghost. Music: “Old black Joe.” He is Joe, the convict, made up in the role of his old father, with a woolly grey wig, a dilapidated coachman’s hat, and the extraordinary “ginral’s coat” previously described. He carries a coachman’s whip in one hand, and a feather duster in the other.) He must have got that coat from some Confederate officers. It was worn all through the war, it has been in battles. And that one button, that yellow button, big as a half a dollar, the last of the tribe, reminder of the dead glory. He looks out for customers, he hunts them as his grandaddy used to hunt heads in the Congo. He’s one of the crowd of hackmen—he storms down on you like a race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with whips!

(Uncle Caesar looks about, with growing energy and excitement; appearing to discover Porter, he stretches out the whip, crying): Kyar you anywhere in de town, boss, fo fifty cents! (he dusts an imaginary hack with his duster) Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral.

Porter: Driver, take me to the home of Miss Azalea Adair.

Uncle Caesar (stretches out his arm, as if barring Porter’s way; an expression of suspicion and enmity on his face): What’s dat? (then, recovering himself, with blandishing air) What you gwine da fo, boss?

Porter: What’s that to you?

Uncle Caesar: Nothin, suh, jes nuthin. Only it’s a lonesome kind of part of town and few folks ever has business out dah. Step right in, de seats is clean.

Porter: All right; if that old hack of yours don’t fall to pieces at the next bump. (a pause; Porter turns his eyes to the atlas, and reads). “The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets, of which 137 are paved; a system of waterworks which cost $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.” (takes out his purse, rises, and offers Uncle Caesar a half and a quarter dollar) Here’s a quarter extra for you.

Uncle Caesar: It’s two dollars, suh.

Porter: How’s that? I plainly heard you call out: “Fifty cents to any part of the town.”

Uncle Caesar: It’s two dollars, suh. It’s a long way from de hotel.

Porter: It’s within the city limits, and well within them. Don’t think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills over there in the East? Well, I was born on the other side, in North Carolina. You old fool nigger, can’t you tell people from other people when you see ’em?

Uncle Caesar (grins): Is you from de South, suh? Ah reckon it was dem shoes of yourn fooled me. Dey is somethin sharp on de toes fo a Southern genleman to wear.

Porter: Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?

Uncle Caesar: Boss, fifty cents is right; but Ah needs two dollars, suh; Ah’m bleeged to have two dollars. Ah ain’t demandin it now, suh; after Ah knows whah you’s from; Ah’m jes sayin dat Ah has to have two dollars tonight, and business is mighty po.

Porter: (reaches for his pocket) You confounded old rascal, you ought to be turned over to the police. But you know; you know; YOU KNOW!

Uncle Caesar: Yes, boss, Ah knows; Ah knows; AH KNOWS! (bowing and scraping, slides into the background)

Porter (returns to study of the atlas; reads): “In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.” That’s the history of it; but that wouldn’t satisfy Major Caswell. He’s a professional Southerner. A good phrase! I know the type. When he bangs the bar with his fist, the first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoes. When he fires the last one at Appomattox, I begin to hope for a chance to get away! (Major Caswell enters right, silently; he is the convict Purzon, made up as a Southern gentleman, with a string tie, a slouch hat and a Prince Albert; he stands in shadow, barely visible; behind him is the frail figure of a woman, still less visible). But he twists the wrist of a woman! The rat with the blabbing lip! (the Major turns upon the woman and enacts the role of twisting her wrist and taking some money from her by force; she moans feebly) But she’s too proud to make a sound! She’s a Southern lady—God bless her—and she hides her grief from the world! (the woman sinks to the ground, invisible in the darkness; the Major comes forward, holding the money in his hand; he counts it with exultation)

The Major: Fifty dollars! A real haul that time! I can live like a gentleman fo once. Step up, suh, say the word, suh, the drinks are on me. The South comes back to her own! The guns of Fort Sumter re-echo again! The Confederate General Hood drives the damn Yankees in rout befo him, and Nashville is free once mo, a place fit fo a gentleman to live in. What’ll you have, Colonel?

(Uncle Caesar has been crouching in the shadows, watching the scene. He now steals out with a butcher knife in his hand and leaps upon the Major, who turns and defends himself, trying to hold the Negro off. In the struggle the Major tears the button from Uncle Caesar’s coat; as the Negro stabs him, he falls, clutching the button in his hand. Uncle Caesar takes the money from him, and then steals off).

Porter (has been watching the drama with excitement, now and then gesturing as if he were directing the actions of the players; he now advances, gazing upon the body): Stabbed him to the heart! A white man he was, and the old Negro slave killed him! But he leaves a clue—see, the Major has torn the one last button from the old Negro’s coat, and he holds that button in his dead hand! That’s where I come upon the scene—I’ll be the man from New York who brings the fifty dollars to Miss Azalea Adair. I discover how Major Caswell robbed his wife; I know that the Negro will take the money back to her; so I take that button out of the Major’s hand—(he stoops and takes the button) So when the police come and find the body, they don’t know what to make of it! (two policemen enter silently; they discover the body, make a swift investigation, and then pick up the body and carry it off, right) And so the old Negro escapes, and dies in his bed with the preacher praying over him, and the angels waiting for his soul. And something has happened—(exulting)—a drama! A real story—in Nashville, Tennessee! (a pause) Oh, they’ll have to take that story! That’s a masterpiece, and I know it! I’ll get money for that—and buy Margaret a real present. What’ll it be? A pony, perhaps! No, that would cost too much to keep. It’ll be a doll, the most beautiful doll in the very fanciest shop in New York. Margaret, dear, how would you like to have a doll—a big one in a pink crepe dress, with pink ribbons in her hair—and when you lay her down she closes her eyes, and when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!”

(Margaret enters, at left, moving softly, in dream fashion; a frail, sensitive, eager child, dressed in white muslin; she carries the big doll as described, and gazes at it with ecstasy. Music.)

Porter: Do you like it, dear?

Margaret: Oh, Papa, she’s so sweet! Just listen! (she squeezes the doll, which says “Mamma!”) She says “Mamma!” Oh, I wish Mamma could be here to hear her! (runs to Porter) But you’re here. Papa! You’ve come back to me. Have you come to stay?

Porter: Yes, sweetheart, never to go away.

Margaret: Oh, Papa, I’ve missed you so! Why did you stay so long?

Porter: That’s a sad story, dear.

Margaret: They wouldn’t tell me a thing about it—where you were or what you were doing.

Porter: Listen, dear, it’s hard for me to tell you, but I have to tell you some day. You’ll never doubt Papa, will you?

Margaret: Doubt you, Papa?

Porter: No, of course not. It’s something very cruel, and I hate to make you unhappy, but you must know, you must! All those years—three and more while Papa was away from you—they had put him in prison.

Margaret (horrified): In prison!

Porter: Yes, dear. There were people who accused Papa of taking some money that didn’t belong to him—money from a bank. But listen, Margaret, dear, you’ll never doubt what Papa tells you—

Margaret (wide-eyed): Why, of course not, Papa!

Porter: I want you to know that Papa never got that money. Other people got it and they blamed it on him. They ran the bank carelessly, and Papa was never a good hand to take care of money, you know. And Mamma was ill, we had many dreadful troubles. When they accused Papa—oh, it was cruel, with things about it in the newspapers, and Papa had to go into court, and be charged with it, and have to tell things about other people that he couldn’t bear to tell. I ought to have gone, Margaret, dear, I ought to have faced it out and told everything. But I always hated money so, and money matters—I was on my way to the trial, and I fell into a sort of panic, I just couldn’t face it, I went to New Orleans and took a steamer to Central America. You remember the first time Papa was away, for half a year—you were young then—

Margaret: I remember it, Papa. Mamma and I packed up your overcoat, and some good things to eat, and sent them to you.

Porter: I had been traveling all over Central America and South America and Mexico. First I thought I could get some sort of little home there, and have you and Mamma come; but I couldn’t earn a living there, and I was so unhappy. Then I learned that Mamma was worse—at the very time she packed that overcoat she was hardly able to move. So I got desperate, I didn’t care what happened to me, I came back, and Mamma died in my arms. And then I gave myself up, I let them take me and try me in court. I sat and hardly knew what was happening to me; I didn’t say a word that I might have said in my own defense. My heart was breaking, dear, but I couldn’t let you know it—I had to pretend to be happy, and make jokes, and tell you I’d be back soon—(he sobs, and the child with him) I had to tell grandma and grandpa to hide from you where I was, and wait until I came out. I wanted to tell you with my own lips, so you would know Papa was innocent—

Margaret: Of course, Papa! Of course!

Porter: Oh, sweetheart, I can never tell you about that place, and what I suffered there. Only one thing kept me alive—the thought that some day I’d be with you again. All the time I was in the prison I used to write stories—I was the night drug-clerk, I slept in the day-time and was on duty at night, and I’d spend long hours writing stories. Some of them were published—and do you know what I spent the money for? To send presents to you! That lovely dolly—I spent hours thinking about that dolly, and how happy it would make you. I used to sit at my desk and imagine you with that dolly, all the sweet things you’d say to it—

Margaret (gazing enraptured at the doll): Oh, such a sweet dolly! Oh, Papa—did you know, when you lay her down she shuts her eyes, and that makes it easy to play she’s asleep! And when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!” Do you suppose I could teach her to say “Papa”?

Porter: Maybe I can find another that will say “Papa!”

Margaret: And a baby dolly, and a mammy dolly to take care of her! A whole dolly family! Oh! Oh! (claps her hands) And Papa! Such a lovely pink dress! I’m going to make her an every-day dress, because this is too fine except for parties.

Porter: Do you know what that dress reminds me of, Margaret? The one your Mamma wore the day we were married.

Margaret: Tell me about it!

Porter: Well, you see, grandma and grandpa didn’t want Mamma to marry, because she wasn’t well, even in those young days. But we just loved each other too much, so we ran away, and were married by the Reverend Mr. Smoot of the Presbyterian church, where Mamma sang in the choir. It was a day in the summertime—in Texas; I can see Mamma in the lovely pink crepe dress, soft and fluffy—

(Athol enters, right, as described, a frail delicate girl of eighteen, wearing a pink dress to match that of the doll. Music: “Silver threads among the gold.”)

She was the loveliest thing in the whole wide state of Texas that morning—and Texas is a wide state, I tell you! I was thinking about her last night, and I wrote: (he reads from manuscript, and meantime Margaret slips back into the shadows, and Athol comes forward, manifesting pleasure in the words). “The Bride! Word of words in the epiphany of life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. Holy is the wife; revered the mother; galluptious is the summer girl—but the bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that gods send in when man is married to mortality.... Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 H. P. touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin.”

Porter (rises and goes to Athol): Dearest! You have come!

Athol: For always, Will.

Porter: For always, and for happiness.

Athol: You’re going to be good to me, Will?

Porter: With the goodness of a whole choir of angels, and the choir of the First Presbyterian Church thrown in! The goodness of a case of the finest old silk-velvet Kentucky Bourbon, with due accompaniments of sugar, mint and ice—

Athol: Oh, Will, what a metaphor! You know what you promised me about your fondness for Bourbon!

Porter: Let it be inscribed—a promissory note—on the back of our marriage certificate.

Athol: It is inscribed on my heart, Will—

Porter: Where I shall read it most frequently! Marriages are laundered in heaven, their promises sprinkled by the celestial water-wagon—

Espiritu de la Vina (enters left; a Spanish girl with vivid brunette coloring, clad in scanty dancer’s costume of scarlet and orange. She carries castanets, with which she emphasizes her mockery. She passes, ogling Porter, and singing)

A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.

Athol: Will, who is that woman?

Porter: A Mexican girl I used to know—a long time ago, dear, when I was ranching—

Athol: Why should you know such a woman?

Porter: It was before I met you, dearest. There was no disloyalty to you.

Athol: But, Will—

Porter: Every man has a temptation, Athol; and she was mine. I have resisted her; I shall always resist her—more easily with you by my side.

Athol: What is her name?

Porter: Espiritu, they call her—Espiritu de la Vina. She is gay, and men flock to her—but I have chosen the water-wagon for my chariot to heaven!

(Espiritu dances off left, with a burst of mocking laughter)

Porter (to Athol): Dearest love, there is no one in the world for me but you. We have a lifetime of bliss before us. (he looks about impatiently) Where’s that old nigger hackman? He swore he’d be here on time! (shouts) Hey, there, you good-for-nothing old grandson of a bob-tailed monkey, what do you mean by being late when you know I’m trying to elope with the sweetest girl in the whole wide state of Texas?

Caesar (runs on, right): Yes, boss, here Ah is, Johnny on de spot! (makes as if to dust off the seat of a carriage) Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar you anywhere in de town fo fifty cents. Dis de young lady? She’s a sho nuff sweet bride! Right dis way, Miss, de preacher is a-waiting! (Music: Lohengrin wedding march. The Negro offers her his arm, gallantly, and leads her off, right, as if escorting her to the coach) Dis way, ma’am, dis way to de weddin festivities!

(Porter stands gazing after them, yearningly. Gradually the white light returns; a brisk step is heard)

Dr. Walters (night physician of the prison, a young man, enters left): Well, Porter?

Porter: Good evening, doctor.

Dr. Walters: Everything all right?

Porter: A few men dying, as you know.

Dr. Walters: I hear that poor fellow, Jimmie Valentine, is laid up again. Wonder how he hangs on.

Porter: It’s a poor place for his kind of trouble.

Dr. Walters: Yes, they all ought to be out in the sunshine. But then they’d all run away. So what can you do?

Porter: I have no answer for that, doctor.

Dr. Walters: They say Jimmie Valentine was a first-class safe-cracker.

Porter: So he tells me.

Dr. Walters: Used to make a specialty of opening a safe in a few seconds, they say—he had a trick all his own. Well, he’ll have a chance to try his skill on the golden gates.

Porter: Doctor, I’m told Valentine has an old mother outside, and he’s never been allowed to see her. Have you any idea of the reason?

Dr. Walters: I never have ideas on such subjects, Porter; I leave them to the warden. I think you’d be well-advised to do the same.

Porter: Yes, sir; I understand you.

Dr. Walters: Have those medical supplies come?

Porter: Yes. They’ll be unpacked and on the shelves before morning.

Dr. Walters: Those aspirin tablets made up?

Porter: All ready.

Dr. Walters: You know, Porter, we can buy such things made up, if you prefer.

Porter: No, sir, I’ve plenty of time—no complaint on that score. I was brought up to percolate my own paregoric and roll my own pills.

Dr. Walters: By the way, Porter—this is serious—I’ve been looking into the matter of that missing alcohol; there’s more of it gone.

Porter: Is that so, doctor?

Dr. Walters: Is there anybody you suspect?

Porter: Well, you know how it is in a prison, there are many men who might take alcohol; but there’s no one I have any reason to name.

Dr. Walters: Well, it has certainly got to be stopped. I don’t like the job of playing detective, but some one has to do it. I’ll slip a little drug into the alcohol, and make somebody mighty sick.

Porter: I’ll do my best to watch, doctor; but you know I’m not here all the time.

Dr. Walters: I have an interesting dissection to do this evening. If there are any calls, you might go for me.

Porter: All right, doctor.

Dr. Walters: You’ve come to know our line of drugs about as well as I do.

(He goes off. Porter sits at desk, his head in his hands. The light fades to red. Sound of guitar and castanets, rising louder. Espiritu de la Vina enters, dancing seductively; she directs her attention to Porter, who gradually looks up, gazing at her; she sings)

A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.

(Porter watches her more and more intensely, half rising to join her. She dances her way to a shelf of bottles, from which she takes down a large square druggist’s bottle, labeled with a red letter “A.” She carries it to him, and sets it on the desk before him, then dances back, and takes from the shelf an enlarged druggist’s label, in red letters: “Alcohol.” She sets this also before him, and sings in a burst of excitement)

De este sabroso jugo, la blanca espuma
Aleja de las penas la negra bruma,
Si Dios hubiera hecho
De vino el mar, de vino el mar,
Yo me volviera pato, para nadar, para nadar:—
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas,
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas.

The curtain falls with Porter’s eyes riveted upon the bottle.

ACT II.

Scene: the drug-store, as in Act I.

At rise: the time is early evening, and Porter is percolating his own paregoric and rolling his own pills; he works silently and steadily.

Al Jennings (appears in doorway at left; a wiry little man, wearing the uniform of a first-class prisoner—grey, with black stripes on trouser seams; vivid red hair and a temper to correspond; warmhearted to his friends, a trouble to his enemies): Bill.

Porter (turns and stares): Why, Colonel! You’re out of the hole!

Jennings: I’m out, and promised a job in the postoffice! How do you like me in my new dress? I’ve come to pay my thanks.

Porter: To me?

Jennings: They tell me, Bill, that you had the main finger where he had to listen. It’s not every convict has a chance to save his warden’s life!

Porter: Colonel, you and I are insiders. What saved that warden’s life was my bedside manner! Nature has endowed me with a rare blessing, the ability to keep silent when I have nothing to say. The warden was dying—yes, but dying of fright.

Jennings: Men sometimes die of swallowing arsenic, Bill.

Porter: Fowler’s solution, it was, and he hadn’t taken enough to kill. I gave him a dose of simplicity mixed with gall. I said: “Drink, and you’ll be well.” He did, and he was.

Jennings: And then you said to him: “Warden, I have a friend of happier days, who is having the soul wrenched out of him in solitary.”

Porter: I’ll tell you, Colonel; it’s fortunate that you have the gift of the gab, and have provided me with biographical details to touch the heart of even an Ohio politician. “Warden,” I said, “this Al Jennings, this outlaw, this desperado whom the newspapers and the railway detectives have hunted over two continents for ten years—this Al Jennings was born outdoors in a mountain snowstorm; he was suckled upon frost, he was weaned upon kicks and beatings, he was a street rat, hunted through the alleys; he was driven into crime by cattle thieves and political grafters—in the state of Oklahoma they have such, Mr. Warden. His crimes were wholesome, outdoor crimes, as one might say; lovely, picturesque, heroic deeds, which school-boys will thrill to throughout all time. To hold up a transcontinental express, and dynamite the baggage car, and ride all night through mountain canyons with sacks of treasure at your saddle-bow; to gallop into town with a fusillade of bullets, and gallop away with the inside contents of a bank—that, Mr. Warden, involves an expenditure of ammunition sufficient to constitute a war. A train-bandit may be a man of true loyalty, who would die before he would throw down a friend. Give Al Jennings a chance, and you’ll find him a valuable assistant; and more than that, he’ll stroll into your office of an evening, and produce for you an elaboration of anecdotal pyrotechnics to restore the shining days of Haroun al Raschid and his Scheherazade.” That’s what I gave him, Colonel.

Jennings (deeply moved): Bill, you can’t imagine what I’ve been through in this place, it’s been a blazing hell. They’ve starved me for months on end. We outdoor men, we fade away and shrivel in a place like this. Look at me, Bill—what would I do on a horse? When I first came in, and learned that you were here, and you never came to see me, my heart died. Three weeks passed, and you didn’t come; I thought, Well, he’s got a safe berth in the hospital, he’s not going to risk it. Then, you were giving out the Sunday quinine, and you slipped me a word under the guard’s nose—then I thought it over, and realized the truth: Bill had always been so dignified, so reserved—he couldn’t bear to have a friend see him in prison garb!

Porter: Colonel, I have buried the corpse of my grief; let us not dig it up.

Jennings: All right; but let me say this: What you’re here for I’ve never asked, but I’ve a suspicion they framed you.

Porter: Colonel, you have seen my incompetence when it comes to matters of money, whether to gain it or to keep it. It is safe to say that such a man would not be wisely placed in a bank.

Jennings: Somebody put it over on you! And now they’ve put the brand upon you, they’ve made you a convict!

Porter (with excitement): Don’t say it!

Jennings: But it’s true.

Porter: It is not true! I am not a convict!

Jennings: What do you mean, Bill?

Porter: I refuse to wear the brand!

Jennings: But how can you help it?

Porter: When I go from here I shall change my name, and no one shall know me.

Jennings: Men have tried that, many and many a time, but they never get away with it; the story leaks, and then it’s worse than ever—some scoundrel comes along and blackmails you, and you’re at his mercy. Face it out, Bill, live it down.

Porter: Never, never! A man might as well die in this place, and have the bumping of the wheelbarrow down that corridor for his requiem. I will not go through life with that brand upon my forehead.

Jennings: Well, Bill, our paths are different; I’m going to keep my own name and be what I am.

Porter: That’s the way for you, Colonel; you’re a great man, a celebrity; you’ve had your picture in the papers, you can go upon the stage, they’ll put you in that new device they’ve invented, the pictures that move, and that they throw upon a screen. You’re a historical figure—you’ll go down to the future with Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest. But me—what am I? A drug-clerk, a newspaper scribbler, a bank-teller who didn’t find as much money in his drawer as he should have had. (a pause) Come over and see me, Colonel, when you can get off, and tell me stories for me to write up.

Jennings: I’ll tell you stories of this prison! (lowering his voice) For example, how I burned down the bolt-works!

Porter (startled): Oh, my God, man!

Jennings: It’s a fact.

Porter: Don’t say anything like that to me! I don’t want to know things like that! If it should leak, you might think I was to blame.

Jennings: Never in this world. Bill. When two men have rambled over two continents together, fleeing from the law—

Porter: Someone might overhear you, now! (looks about fearfully)

Jennings (coming closer and whispering): It was that lousy scoundrel, Hickson, the bolt contractor, that brought it on himself. He pays the state thirty cents a day for the labor of us prison slaves, and gets eight dollars’ work out of us. He promised me extra pay if I’d raise the product of my machine, so as to show the others it could be done. Well, I did it, and I went to him for my pay—just think of it, he owed me twenty-five cents, and he was too dirty mean to pay it! Told me to go to hell, and if I made any fuss about it, he’d have me paddled and take the hide off my back. Well, first thing, I hurled a monkey-wrench at his head; it missed him by half an inch, and went through a plank. They paddled me for that. When I came out, I spent a month intriguing to get two candles. I tested one of them in my cell, to see how many hours it would burn; then I climbed into the loft, and set the other in a lot of boxes and shavings, and set it burning—I had it figured to start the fire in the night. Well, I heard the alarm, and I danced for glee, and when the fire spread, and the big bolt machines come crashing down from the fourth story, by Jesus, I shrieked like I’d gone crazy. Half a million dollars that fire cost Hickson, and he didn’t have a cent of insurance! Some day, when I get out, I’ll whisper it in his ear, and he’ll wish he’d paid me that twenty-five cents. How’s that for a story, Bill?

Porter (gravely): No, Colonel, I can’t use that story, I can’t write about things like that. No, you’ll never find a word in my writings about a prison, or anything that happens in a prison. I can’t face such things, I don’t know what to do about them. I can only suggest a little kindness to men, a little humor, hoping that some day it may become contagious.

Jennings: I know you, Bill.

Porter: You have had troubles, Colonel; I have had them also. Underneath this room is the basement where they do their punishments; I hear men screaming and moaning—night after night I have to pace the floor and listen, helpless—I have to do my work to that music. I suffer till I am dripping with perspiration—but I am merely one of the victims, it would be my turn next if I should interfere. At first I thought I couldn’t stand it; but—it seems we underestimate our power to endure. I have learned to go the rounds with the doctor, as Dante traveled through the seven hells; I answer calls when men have hanged themselves in their cells, or cut their throats, or bitten the arteries in their wrists. Every night in this hospital at least one man dies; they bring a wheelbarrow, and throw in the corpse, and a sheet over it, and cart it to the dead-house—through that passage they go (indicating the passage across the stage, on the other side of the counter) I hear them—rumble, rumble, rumble—bump, bump—while I’m trying to write. (he pauses) I have put a shell about me. I say, I am not here; I do not belong in this world; I have nothing to do with it; I live in my spirit, in my dreams. That is why I do not permit you to call me a convict, or to say that I carry the brand.

Jennings: Bill, let us fly away together, to those happy days in Central America, before the law closed its tight fist on us!

Porter: Be once more that little scarecrow, clad in a battered silk hat, and a dress-suit with one tail torn off, dumped out of the surf on the coast of Honduras!

Jennings: Be that grave, ample figure in a Palm Beach suit, steaming and fanning yourself in front of the United States consulate! You had your bedside manner with you that morning, Bill, in spite of an overdose of aguardiente!

Porter: Ah, dio mio, but those were happier days than we knew! If only your thirty thousand dollars had been dowered with immortality, we might have been there now!

Jennings: The mistake you made, Bill, was when you wouldn’t come with us to hold up that bank. If we’d had you, we’d have been all right.

Porter: You are joking, Colonel? In an emergency, I’d hardly know the hind-end of a gun from the front. No, I couldn’t do anything like that; I couldn’t threaten to shoot a man.

Jennings: You remember, I offered to let you hold the horses.

Porter: No, I couldn’t even hold the horses. We had to part company at that place.

(The Judge and Delacour enter at left, on the far side of the counter, and stand listening. The Judge is an irascible elderly convict, grey-haired, tall and lean; Delacour is a fat, pudgy, and pompous old man. Both wear uniform of first-class convicts; both have decided Southern accents)

The Judge: Ahem! Ah beg pahdon fo’ interruptin these joyful reminiscences, but would it be possible fo’ us to have medical attention, suh?

Jennings (turns): Well, look who’s here! The Judge! And Delacour! Bankers’ Row moves to the hospital! Bill, have you the pleasure of knowing these two gents?

Porter: Only professionally.

Jennings: Permit me the honor. My friend, Mr. William Sydney Porter, my friend, Judge Gordon Powhatan, retired banker of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Also, my friend Anatole Richemine Carillon Delacour, retired banker of New Orleans. Here are two careers which prove to us the power of money in a great democracy! You and I, Bill, did our robbing in thousands or tens of thousands; we are small fish. But the Judge and Delacour are whales—they got away with several millions apiece!

Delacour (angrily): Jennin’s, that is silly stuff!

Jennings: He let his bank down for two millions, and has it all salted away—

Delacour: Ah tell you that is rubbish!

Jennings: Therefore he never had to live on the range like you and me; he has apartments in Bankers’ Row—palatial rooms with a bed and desk and all modern conveniences—a valet to press his striped trousers—mail three times a day—telegraph service direct from the warden’s office—

Delacour: Nonsense, Ah tell you!

Jennings (with teasing delight): Money will buy anything in prison, Bill—just as outside! Make yourself agreeable to these powerful magnates, and they’ll invite you to the feasts they spread every Sunday afternoon. Delacour has built a complete kitchenette behind the walls of the postoffice, and there he waves his magic wand—all the rest of the week your mouth waters at the memory of his sauces and flavorings—red-hot with chili peppers, Creole style. The Judge mixes drinks, and they’re Creole style, red-hotter!

Judge: You gabble like a turkey, suh. I need medical attention, Ah tell you.

Porter: What is it, Judge?

Jennings: Nothing but alcoholism, you may be sure—tasting his own toddies before he serves them—

Judge: Ah have a prescription, suh. (hands paper to Porter)

Delacour: And Ah too. (he also hands paper)

Jennings: Invite Mr. Porter to the next meeting of the Recluse Club, Judge.

Judge: We should be honored by yo’ presence, suh.

Porter (takes pills from a bottle and hands them to Judge; gives Delacour a paper of powder): There are your prescriptions. I shall be pleased to come, Judge.

Judge: Ah shall see that an extra plate is set.

Delacour: But fo’get the brayin’s of that jackass Jennin’s. (they start to the door, left)

Jennings: You know how it is, Bill, these old bags of money are always frightened to death, they hide their gold, and lie about it—

Delacour (in the doorway, shouts excitedly): Rot! Rot, Ah tell you, rot! (they go off)

Jennings (laughing heartily): We shall have a circus with those old banker boys! You know Raidler—my pal at the postoffice? A great lad—a hold-up artist—used to be known as “the Oklahoma terror,” but they shot him in the neck, and now he has trouble in navigating. But his tongue is still alive, and he’s the terror of “Bankers’ Row”—kids the life out of the pompous old duffers. That fat dumpling, Delacour, stole a fortune down in New Orleans, and Raidler gets him crazy, talking about his vast wealth, and his power in the prison. It really is a rotten graft, and they’re scared the story will leak out, and break into the papers. (becoming serious) Well, Bill, I must be moving. I have an errand for the warden. He had more than one reason for letting me out of the hole, it appears. (a pause) You never ask any questions, do you, Bill?

Porter: You will tell me what you want me to know.

Jennings (laughs): Yes, of course. You know Jimmie Valentine?

Porter: I see him every night.

Jennings: Well, Jimmie has a chance to get a pardon.

Porter: What?

Jennings: So the warden says.

Porter: What has happened?

Jennings: Do you read the papers?

Porter: Yes.

Jennings: Read about this Press-Post scandal?

Porter: I saw the headlines.

Jennings: Well, here’s the biggest newspaper in this city, and the officers have been plundering it, and mixing up the books; now the treasurer has skipped town, and locked the papers in the vault, and no one has the combination.

Porter: I saw that.

Jennings: The courts are helpless; they’ve got to open the vault, and they daren’t use dynamite for fear of destroying the papers. So there’s Jimmie’s chance.

Porter: You mean, they want him to open it?

Jennings: The warden asked me what I thought of the possibility. I said, “I’ll lay you a wager he’ll do it in less than thirty seconds by a stop-watch.” “Will he have to have tools?” he asked. “He don’t use tools,” I said; “he has a little trick.” “Will he consent to do it?” “I don’t know that,” I said. “The state of Ohio has never done much for him, you must admit.” I tried to bargain for a pardon. I said, “Here’s a man that’s been in prison most of his life, since he was ten years old. He’s dying of T. B.—had three hemorrhages in the hospital. Surely it won’t hurt the state of Ohio to let him die in his old mother’s arms.” The warden said, “Tell him I’ll ask the governor for a pardon, and I think I can get it—at least, the governor has never yet turned down a request from me.” What do you think, Bill?

Porter: Well, Jimmie’s a peculiar fellow, you know.

Jennings: What the men here call a “stir bug”; got the prison poison in his soul. But I know him better than anybody else; we were on the range together. Jimmie was an alley-rat, like me; when he was ten years old, he stole a loaf of bread or something, and they sent him to the reformatory; when he came out, eight years later, they had reformed him into a thoroughly qualified cracksman. Now he’s a third-time offender—habitual criminal they call it—all privileges denied—can’t write a letter or even get one, can’t see his poor old mother—hasn’t seen her for sixteen years—

Porter: That’s the ghastliest thing about it, Colonel.

Jennings: I know. The warden says he’s powerless; it’s the law of this august state of Ohio.

(Joe enters, right, from the hospital; he has his broom and cleaning rags, and approaches diffidently)

Porter: Well, Colonel, we on the inside see what you might describe as the seamy side of the law.

Joe: Misteh Porteh, suh, would Ah botheh you if Ah was to empty de trash-basket now, suh?

Porter: You might do something else. See if Jimmie Valentine is able to come here.

Joe: Yes, suh, right away, suh. (hurries off right)

Porter: Did Jimmie ever tell you how he does that trick of opening safes?

Jennings: It’s quite simple. He takes a file, and files his finger nails across the middle right down to the flesh—

Porter: Oh, horrible!

Jennings: He lays the raw quivering flesh against the lock, while he turns the dial with his other hand. His nerves are so sensitive that he can feel the tumblers when they fall; so it’s just the same as if he knew the combination. How’s that for a story, Bill?

Porter: My God, I’ll never write anything like that! That’s too horrible to think about!

Jennings: Bill, there are men who would file one hand off to get out of this pen. (a pause) At the time I tried to make my getaway, Jimmie came forward to take the blame. Said he’d got the saws for me, and tempted me to try it. Of course, he was lying, and the warden knew he was lying; just the same, Jimmie got reduced to the lowest grade, and that’s what brought him to the hospital, I guess. I saw his mother for him, and told him about it, and Bill, he cried like a baby! But the great state of Ohio can’t find any good in such a man.

Porter: The great state of Ohio would seem to be lacking somewhat in spiritual intuition.

Valentine (enters, right; a tall, emaciated man of about forty; once handsome and debonair, now he is surly and grim; speaks with a slow drawl; wears the black and white stripes of a third-class prisoner, and walks feebly. Joe stays close by his side, ready to support him if needed) Hello, Al. Evenin’, Mr. Porter.

Jennings (offers him chair): Have a seat, Jimmie.

Valentine (lets himself carefully into chair): What’s the dope, Al?

Jennings: Good dope, Jimmie. The warden says you’ve a chance at a pardon.

Valentine: What’s that?

Jennings: Straight goods.

Valentine (after staring at him): What’s the son-of-a-bitch tryin’ to get out of me?

Jennings: He wants something, of course—

Valentine: Spit it out.

Jennings: You know this situation of the Press-Post?

Valentine: Oh, that! (a pause) So they want me to open the vault for ’em!

Jennings: That’s it, Jimmie.

Valentine: Close to forty years I’ve lived in the state of Ohio, and here’s the first time they’ve had any use for me.

Jennings: The main finger asked me, could you do it.

Valentine: I can do it all right. Yes, I can do it.

Jennings: I made a bargain with him; he promises—

Valentine: Al, you’re a good scout, but quit kiddin’ yourself.

Jennings: You won’t believe him?

Valentine: If I wanted to get out of this stir, just the last thing in the world I’d ever do would be to open that vault.

Jennings: How so?

Valentine: And show ’em how dangerous I am? Why, Al, they’d never sleep nights after that. They’d say, “This guy’ll have everything we own!” Not on your tin-type, Al!

Jennings: The main finger knows you’re a sick man, Jimmie—

Valentine: If I’m well enough to open one, I’m well enough to open two. The main finger knows that, and if he don’t, the newspapers’ll tell him. Forget it son!

Jennings: He wanted me to put it up to you—

Valentine: Sure, he knows you’re my friend—he’s a wise bird, all right And I’ll do it, Al—don’t misunderstand me, I’ll do it but I won’t kid myself. I’ll do it for your sake. I’ll say to him: “Give my friend Al a square deal in this place; and Mr. Porter here—”

Porter: Don’t do it for me! I wouldn’t let a man do such a thing!

Valentine: You mean, filin’ my nails? Hell, what do you suppose that amounts to, when you’re fixed like me? I’ll do it and glad to do it for a friend. Lead me to it!

Jennings: I thought Bill would see a story in your stunt, Jimmie; but he says it’s too painful.

Valentine (looking at Porter with sharp interest): Well, he’s right. What does anybody want to read about things like that for? People want to be happy, they want some reason fer goin’ on livin’. If you put me in a story, Mr. Porter, put me like I might have been. You wouldn’t think it to see me now, but I was a gay kid once; a good-looker, and the girls all liked me—yes, and I decided to go straight, too, but the bulls wouldn’t let me. There was a guy named Varick, he had me in his note-book, and every time there was a job pulled off, Jimmie Valentine was the first man he thought of; he’d haul me up to headquarters once a week, till I got surly, like a dog chained up. You may believe it or not, I don’t care—but the job I’m here for was a job I never saw.

Jennings: Jimmie, Bill here is right; there’s nothing in it for you. Tell the main finger to go to hell.

Valentine: No, Al, let me do it. There is somethin’ in it—I’ve just thought of it.

Jennings: What’s that?

Valentine: It’ll please the old lady. She’ll read about it in the paper, and paste it on the wall, and have somethin to look at the rest of her life. You know how a mother is, she likes her son to be number one, whatever he is—even a safe-cracker! Tell me, Al, you sure she didn’t find out I was sick?

Jennings: I swore to her you were head of the machine-shop, and the most useful man in the place.

Valentine: I might make the main finger send for her; but that would be worse than nothin’, it would break her heart. I think of her nights, I seem to feel her, wanderin’ round, lookin’ through the gates. Poor old soul, she’s got nothin’ in life but me, and she’s over sixty, and must be feeble. She sits all evenin’ lookin’ at my picture, kissin’ my old coat, prayin’ to Jesus fer my dirty soul. Gee, but it’s tough! (a pause. Joe is crying) Well, this’ll be a wet party if we go on. (rises feebly) What time does the show start?

Jennings: Tomorrow morning, Jimmie.

Valentine: All right, Al, tell the main finger I’m game, but I won’t kiss him. And get me a rat file, a good sharp one, with a lot of bite. Good night, Mr. Porter.

Porter: Good night.

Valentine: Lead me home, Joe. (takes Joe’s arm and goes feebly off right, to hospital. Porter sits with head in hands, staring before him. Jennings stands silent, wipes a furtive tear from his eyes, and then goes off, left, not daring to trust himself to speak)

Porter (to himself): If you ever put me in a story, put me like I might have been. A gay kid—a good-looker, and the girls all liked me. I decided to go straight too, but the bulls wouldn’t let me. There was a guy named Varick—Varick—

(a heavy rumbling sound is heard, coming nearer; a burly convict enters at right, on the far side of the counter, wheeling a loaded barrow; it bumps at the door-sills and across the floor; he crosses the stage and goes off left. The contents of this barrow are, of course, hidden from the audience by the counter. Porter follows the progress of the convict with his eyes)

Joe (enters right, from hospital, and stands looking at Porter): Da goes dat po feller Smithers, what hanged hisself; gettin’ his las ride. (a pause) Dey was another con croaked tonight—T. B. feller, Jake What’s-his-name. (a pause) Dey sho is one mountain of misery in dis place. (a pause; a sound of faint screams from beneath the stage; Porter starts and puts his hands to his ears) Dey’s paddlin some po feller down in de basement.

Porter: I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!

Joe (shaking his head mournfully): Dis aint no place fo a genleman, Misteh Porteh. Dey sho hadn’t ought to put a high-up genleman like you in dis pen.

Porter (distracted): Get out, Joe, I want to be alone! Don’t talk to me now! Go along! Turn off that light.

(Joe backs away, but does not leave the stage; another rumble is heard, another wheelbarrow crosses from right to left. Joe snaps off the light. There is total darkness, and the increasing rumble of the barrow, with the screams from below, gives opportunity for a quick change of the set, as follows: Brass gratings rise up, above the counter on the far side, the gratings having openings, making the cashier’s windows of a bank. There is a gap in these gratings, where the counter may be swung inward upon hinges, giving an entrance to the interior. The shelves below the counter turn on pivots, so that they now appear as bank furnishings. The shelves at the right side of the room turn in the same way. On the left side the wall now appears as the steel door of a bank-vault; this wall runs obliquely, cutting off the back corner of the stage, so that the entire audience can see the steel door, and when it swings open, can see partly into the vault. Joe makes a quick change into the blue uniform of a bank porter. The Judge enters and seats himself at the desk, made up as an elderly, dignified bank president with white moustache and goatee. Delacour, stout and pompous, places himself as cashier at the window. Dr. Walters takes a place outside the gratings, as a bank customer. Porter stands by the half-open door of the vault, watching the scene, as it gradually comes into view by red light.

The rumble of the wheelbarrow turns into the galloping of horses’ hoofs; the screams from the basement become yells, off-stage left; also revolver shots are heard. Full red light. Al Jennings, mounted on a cow-pony, and clad in cowboy costume, with an arsenal of guns, rides through the entrance to the bank, on the far side of the counter, at left; he is bare-headed, with touseled red hair; carries a revolver in each hand, aims one at the cashier, and waves the other at the whole room. He is followed by Raidler, also in cowboy costume, with guns)

Jennings (yells): I’m Al Jennings, train-bandit, and I’m out for the stuff! Hold up your hands! Your money or your life!

Raidler: Meet Raidler, the Oklahoma terror! We want fifteen thousand dollars, and we want it quick!

Jennings: Death hides in our shooting irons! Keep your eye on the muzzle, and jump!

Raidler: We never speak but once, and we shoot to kill! (he fires a shot)

Jennings: Keep your hands in the air and commend your souls to your Creator!

Raidler: Where are the money bags? (to Delacour) Speak, you fat old Shylock!

Jennings (to Joe): Open that gate there, coon! Jump, you black bob-tailed monkey! (he fires a shot, and Joe leaps, in comic terror, and swings back a part of the counter)

Jennings (rides into the front of stage and wheels his horse): Where is the treasure? (levels gun at the Judge, whose hands shake with fright as he holds them in the air; he tries to speak, but cannot make a sound) Spit it out, you doddering old note-shaver! Where are the securities? (turns the guns upon Porter, and for the first time sees him) Why—why—what’s this? If it ain’t my friend Bill! My old pal of Honduras and San Salvador and the Central American coast! Bill Porter, or I’m dreaming! Welcome to our bandit-crew! (sticks his guns into the holsters, leaps from his horse, and clasps Porter’s hands) So this is your joint! Come with us, Bill, come out into the open, we’re Robin Hood and his Merry Men! Bill, we’ve got the loveliest little ranch in Oklahoma; and with this fifteen thousand dollars we’re planning to buy it and settle down. Come along, and share the good life.

Porter (with his customary gravity, not in the least disturbed by a bank hold-up): No, Colonel, I can’t help you earn the money, so I can’t help you spend it. I could never point a gun at a man!

Jennings: Well, come and hold the horses. We’ll give you a share if you’ll just hold the horses—won’t we, Raidler?

Raidler: Sure, anything for a pal of yours.

Porter: No, Colonel, I’m sorry; I couldn’t even hold the horses.

Jennings: You mean to go straight, hey? Well, go to it—but it tears us apart. (wrings his hand) Well, good bye, old man, we’ll ride along, and get our fifteen thousand elsewhere! (leaps upon his horse) Pardon us, gentlemen, no offense meant, and none taken, I hope. Clear the way! (he rides out to far side of counter, joining Raidler)

Raidler: Can’t we shoot even one of them?

Jennings: I’d like to bust that fat, white old bond-worm at the counter, but he’d make a mess. Away we go—to the great open spaces! (they fire a parting volley and ride out as they came; shots and yells outside, and hoof-beats dying away)

Judge (recovering the self-possession of a Southern bank-president): Well, gentlemen, we’ve had an adventure. I think, after that, we’re entitled to a drink. Gather round; I’ll mix them red-hot, in Creole style. (takes a quart bottle from his desk) Mr. Porter, we’re obliged to you.

Dr. Walters (pointing an accusing finger through the grill): Just a moment, here; I don’t like the job of playing detective, but somebody has to do it. How does this man come to know that bandit? (silence) I’ll tell you how; he’s an ex-convict.

Porter: That is not true! (with excitement) No one shall say it of me! I refuse to go through life with that brand upon my forehead!

Dr. Walters: I was the doctor at the Ohio Pen, and I played the detective on him there. Now I’m representing the National Bankers’ Protective Association. Varick is my name—Varick, do you get me? Here’s my shield, if you want to see it.

Judge: Gentlemen, in a case like this the first duty of all loyal Southerners is to have a drink. Joe, bring the glasses. Here comes our able and highly respected shoe-merchant—(Jimmie Valentine enters the front room through the door at right; he is debonair and jaunty, clad in an immaculate business suit, and carrying a suit-case) Gentlemen, meet Mr. James Valentine. I am happy to enliven the festivities by an auspicious announcement. Mr. Valentine, the leading shoe-merchant of our town, has become engaged to my daughter. Let us drink to the happiness of bride and groom.

Valentine: Just a moment, Judge; we’ll have to postpone that liquor. The bride is coming.

Judge: Indeed! We are honored! (he puts away the bottle, and signs Joe to put away the glasses. Faint music, the Lohengrin wedding march. The light fades from red to pale violet. Athol enters at right, in the same costume as Act I, and accompanied by Margaret, in the same costume; also another child, a year or two younger) Gentlemen, my daughter, and her little nieces, my two grand-daughters. (all bow, with elaborate politeness) To what do we owe this honor, daughter?

Athol: Jimmie has to take a business trip, and I’m driving him to the depot. I’m tempted to go with him, Daddy. Wouldn’t I make a nice drummer? (she takes Valentine’s derby hat from his hand and puts it on her head; picks up his suit-case from the floor) My, how heavy it is! Feels like it was full of gold bricks.

Valentine: Lots of nickle-plated shoe-horns in there. Thought I’d save express charges by taking them along with me. I’m getting awfully economical.

Judge: While you’re here, daughter, you must see our new safe. Gentlemen, we’ve just had it installed, the very fanciest thing in the county, and we’re proud of it. (he swings the door and shows it) The vault is small, but this new patented door is a wonder. Three solid steel bolts are thrown with one handle; it has a time lock, and once that is set and fastened, we defy any safe-cracker in the land. Would you like to examine it, Valentine?

Valentine: Unfortunately, I don’t know much about safes; it wouldn’t mean anything to me. (he politely looks over the outfit)

Delacour (to Dr. Walters): Is there anything I can do for you?

Dr. Walters (who is leaning on the counter peering through the railings): No, I’m just waiting for a man I know.

Margaret (playing with the door): Oh grandpa, what nice shiny metal! And what funny locks and knobs! Why do you have so many?

Judge: They all have their uses. Bank burglars are cunning rogues.

Margaret: Does it make a big noise when you shut it?

Judge: It will, if you bang it, I guess.

Margaret: Grandpa, can I shut the bolts and turn the knob, like I learned to do for the old one?

Judge: Yes, sometime, if you happen to be here. (turns to Valentine) Valentine, while you’re in the city, I want you to get me a case or two of that superfine Scotch whiskey you brought down last time. I was just on the point of giving these gentlemen a sample of it—the Creole style, red-hot. It will be a memory for them to carry away from our town—(he is interrupted by a loud clang, as Margaret, having shoved the younger child into the vault in a spirit of play, slams the door, shoots the bolts, and turns the knob of the combination) What have you done?

Athol (screams): Oh, my God!

Margaret (in terror): Grandpa! I was just playing!

Judge (springs to handle and tugs at it): That door can’t be opened!

Athol: Oh, Papa!

Judge: The clock hasn’t been wound, nor the combination set!

Athol: Oh, God save us!

Margaret: Grandpa, I didn’t mean—

Judge: Hush! All be quiet for a moment! (shouts) Child! Listen to me! (faint scream of the child behind the door)

Athol: Oh, the poor darling! She will die of fright!

Joe: Oh, dat po chile!

Athol: Open the door! Break it down! Can’t you men do something?

Judge: Heaven help us! There isn’t a man nearer than two hundred miles who can open that door! My god, Valentine, what can we do? That child—she can’t stand too long in there. There isn’t enough air, and besides, she’ll go into convulsions of fright!

Athol (beats upon the door hysterically with her hands): Oh, let the child out!

Delacour: We’ll have to get some dynamite.

Judge: You’re mad, man; it would kill the child!

Athol (turns to Valentine): Oh, can’t you do something? Try, won’t you?

Valentine (looks at her with a soft smile): Dearest, will you give me that rose you are wearing?

Margaret: What’s that for? (she gives it to him)

Valentine (stuffs it into his vest-pocket, then throws off his coat and turns up his sleeves): Get away from that door, all of you. (takes suit case, lays it on desk, and spreads out complete set of shining burglar’s tools, in orderly fashion; he picks out a steel drill, and starts to work on the door, whistling to himself as he works. All watch him in silence; they look from one to another, and the meaning of their glances is clear—they are realizing that Valentine is a cracksman. Dr. Walters peers through the grill, watching with special intentness. Valentine takes one tool after another, and finally throws back the bolts and opens the door without a word)

Athol (catches the half-fainting child in her arms): Oh, precious! You are safe!

Valentine (puts on his coat and goes to the passage through the counter; he sees Dr. Walters standing, half blocking this passage, and he smiles): Well, Varick! Got round at last, have you? Well, let’s go. I don’t know that it makes much difference now.

Dr. Walters (steps back to let Valentine through the passage): Guess you’re mistaken, Mr. Valentine. Don’t believe I recognize you. Is that your buggy out there, waiting to take you to the train?

Judge (shouts): Jimmie Valentine! Come back here and get that drink before you go. I’ll mix it red-hot, in Creole style. Come back, I tell you! (Athol and the two children go off right; the light shifts to red; the Judge produces his bottle, and Joe hastens grinning, with glasses. Music and jingle of castanets; Espiritu de la Vina dances on, singing)

A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.

(The judge pours the drinks into the glasses; all gather, and lift their glasses in pledge): Gentlemen, we drink to the health of the Bride. What is the phrase: “The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation!” Gentlemen, the Bride!

All: The Bride!

Espiritu de la Vina (sings):

De este sabroso jugo, la blanca espuma
Aleja de las penas la negra bruma,
Si Dios hubiera hecho
De vino el mar, de vino el mar,
Yo me volviera pato, para nadar, para nadar:—
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas,
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas.

ACT III.

Scene: The postoffice of the prison.

The view is from the interior of the office. The counter runs across the stage at the back, and there are two windows, with brass grills, through which the prison inmates get their mail; large racks with pigeon-holes at each side; these counters, including the racks and windows, are built on hinges, to swing back, away from the audience, making a large entrance, as described later. In the center of the stage, towards the front, is a large table, with five chairs; an extra chair in the room. On the left wall of the room, partly occupied by shelves, a portion has been cut into, and a little kitchenette built in; the wall is swung back on hinges, disclosing a gas oven, and shelves for pots and pans, with stock of provisions underneath. An entrance, left, and one on the other side of the room, right.

At rise: Five members of the “Recluse Club” are having a Christmas Eve celebration. The table is set with napery and silver, and remains of a partly consumed meal, including a turkey. Christmas wreaths and bunches of evergreens on the walls and hanging over the table. The members of the club are seated as follows: Porter in the middle seat, facing the audience; Jennings at his right and Delacour at his left. On the right of Jennings sits Raidler, which places him with his right side to the audience; the seat opposite to him, with left side to the audience, belongs to the Judge, but the Judge is now standing at the gas-oven, brewing a hot punch. All five of the men are in that state of gaiety appropriate to a feast. They are all in their prison costumes, save that the Judge has on a cook’s apron. Raidler is a shriveled-up cripple, with crutches on either side of his chair. The Negro Joe is present as a servant; he is not supposed to take part in the laughter and singing, but does so furtively, and on sufferance. He has got a drum-stick of the turkey, and gnaws it, occasionally sticking it away in his pocket when called upon for service. All are singing:

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!

What the hell do we care?

What the hell do we care?

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,

What the hell do we care now?

Jennings (pounds on table with his knife and fork): Speed her up, Judge, speed her up; we’re perishing!

Judge: If you want this punch in style, suh, you’ll have to allow me time fo’ the brewin’ of it, suh.

Porter: That’s right, Judge, stand on your dignity.

Judge: You won’t wish me to fall below the standard of our banquet, suh. Punch is punch, or it is an affront, suh.

Jennings: Three cheers for Creole style. Make it red-hot.

Raidler: This was sure one feed!

Delacour: Gentlemen, if you could have seen the time Ah had gettin’ that turkey from the commissary clerk! “Do you think,” says he, “that turkeys are runnin’ wil’ in the state of Ohio?” Said Ah: “They appear to be flyin’ higher than any wil’ one on the top of the Alleghanies.”

Jennings: If you get to thinking what you paid for this bird, you’ll lose what you’ve swallowed.

Raidler: By God, it would be the first time a banker ever coughed up anything good since the days of the first pawn-broker. Who was he, Bill?

Porter: The founder of the Medici family, in fifteenth century Venice. The three balls were their family coat of arms.

Raidler (to Delacour): Hey, you old Medici, pass the raisins.

Delacour: Can it be you’re willin’ to eat what we provide?

Raidler: Me? I live off the bankers, as they live off the rest of the world.

Jennings: Delacour, when you puff up like that, your eyes are like two pale gooseberries imbedded in a mask of red putty. You have stuffed yourself.

Delacour: Did you think Ah cooked that meal to watch you stuff yourself?

Jennings: You’re the living image of one of the passengers in my first hold-up, on the Santa Fe. It was at night, and this fat, solemn snoozer had managed to get into his frock-tailed coat and high silk hat—but all the rest of him was pajamas and bunions. When I dug into his pockets, I expected to drag out a block of gold-mine stock or an armful of government bonds, but all I found was a little boy’s French harp about four inches long. It made me mad, and I stuck the harp against his mouth. “If you can’t pay, play,” I says. “I can’t play,” says he. “Then learn right off quick,” I says, and let him smell the end of my gun-barrel. So he caught hold of the harp, and turned as red as you, and blew a dinky little tune I used to hear when I was a kid:

Prettiest little gal in the country—oh!

Mammy and Daddy told me so.

I made him play it all the time I was in the car: some day, when you and I get out, Delacour, I’ll call on your bank and teach it to you.

Delacour: Maybe you’ve already taught it to me. Maybe Ah was that passenger.

Raidler: Maybe he was!

Joe (with wide-open eyes): Was you, boss?

Jennings: By God, I don’t know whether you’re joking or not, you old pudding-bag!

Porter: Gentlemen, gentlemen, remember the spirit of this hallowed hour. Ten million pairs of parents in the United States are hanging up stockings for their little ones; at such a moment the hardest heart turns to sentimentality, the trigger-finger of the grimmest killer is stayed, the burglar becomes sociable—

Raidler: Yea, Bill! Did I ever tell you how Jersey Pete ran into the fellow that had rheumatism?

Porter: If the story be in fit spirit for Christmas, let us have it.

Raidler: Jersey Pete was helping himself in a rich man’s bedroom, when the guy woke up, and Pete covered him with a gun and told him to hoist his hands. The guy raised his right hand, but he says, “I can’t raise my left, I got inflammatory rheumatism.” “Hell,” says Pete, “I’m sorry for you. It hits me in the same place.” “Did you ever try rattlesnake oil?” says the guy. “Gallons of it,” says Pete; “if all the snakes I’ve used the oil of was strung out in a row they’d reach eight times as far as Saturn, and the rattles could be heard at Valparaiso, Indiana, and back.” “Some use Chiselum’s pills,” says the guy. “Fudge,” says Pete, “I took ’em five months. No good. I had some relief the year I tried Finkelham’s Extract, Balm of Gilead Poultices, and Potts’ Pain Pulverizer; but I think it was the buckeye I carried in my pocket that done the trick.” So then they got to be friends, and Pete helped the guy to get his duds on, and took him out and blew him to a drink.

Jennings: Bill will make a story out of that and I’ll swipe a few stamps from the State of Ohio, and the editors will eat it up. They love these sympathetic gunmen and soft-hearted bandits.

Raidler: The story reminds me! When do we get taken to get a drink?

Judge: Suh, the wassail waits! (brings steaming saucepan of punch to the table)

Jennings: Hurrah! Hurrah!

Raidler: Lead me to it!

Judge: Let me infawm you, suh, this is no smuggled stuff, suh. The essential ingredient is genuine old hand-made Clover Leaf ’59, Private Stock. (ladles it into glasses)

Jennings: No desert rat was ever thirstier.

Delacour: Save some for me, there!

Joe (sidles up with eager interest): Jes a drap fo de niggeh, Jedge, jes a drap. (as he gets it) Thank’ee, boss, thank’ee.

Jennings: Give us a toast, Bill.

All: A toast! A toast!

Porter (rising): Gentlemen: to the ten million mothers and fathers of families who are now occupied in filling stockings and decorating trees in this our Christmas nation! To the ten million little boys who have whispered a want, and are waiting in an ecstasy of anticipation! To the ten million little girls who have asked for a dolly, in a pink silk dress, one that shuts her eyes when you lay her down, and when you squeeze her, says “Mamma!” May they have their twenty million desires.

All: Hurrah! (they drink)

Jennings: That seems far off from the Ohio Pen, Bill.

Porter: Not so far as you may think, Colonel. It is the Day We Celebrate.

Raidler: Give us another, nearer home.

Porter: Gentlemen: to one who celebrates his Christmas lying on a hospital cot, fearing every moment the last hemorrhage that will carry him off. To Jimmie Valentine, and his promised pardon!

All (at first taken aback; then, soberly): Jimmie Valentine.

Jennings: And his pardon! (a pause) Boys, if he don’t get that pardon, there’s going to be hell to pay in this place.

Raidler: Right you are, Al!

Jennings: If there’s anything the men have been more stirred up about, it was before I came in here.

Raidler (hitting the table): Well, by Jesus, he earned that pardon!

Porter: Surely he’s going to get it!

Joe: Sho, boss, he got to get it!

Jennings: If they’re going to give it, why don’t they? Are they waiting for him to be dead?

Porter: The warden says the governor promised.

Jennings: Hell! The promise of a politician!

Raidler: I know this—there’s one man in the place don’t expect it, and that’s Jimmie.

Jennings: I notice he talks about it every day, all the same.

Porter: The Colonel is right about that; he is hoping, yet trying not to admit the hope—because he can’t bear to lose it.

Jennings: Nobody has to tell me about that—I went with him when he did the job. He’d have died before he let the main finger see what was going on inside him; but he wants that pardon, and he wants to see his old mother before his last hemorrhage.

Raidler (indicating the Judge and Delacour): Look at them two old toads sitting there! All they’re thinking about is, how dangerous to turn out a man that might be able to open one of their safes!

Judge: Well, suh, you must admit, suh—

Raidler: Admit nothing! You’re a pair of bloodsucking Shylocks.

Jennings: Isn’t the poor devil dying?

Judge: Yes, suh, but he might teach someone else that trick—

Raidler: Godalmighty, will you listen to that? Aint he had chance to teach a hundred of ’em here? Aint the papers published how he done it?

Jennings: Boys, that was one of the prettiest sights you ever laid your eyes on! Just as quick as you could move your fingers, he turned that dial, and I held a watch on him—twelve seconds to a dot, and he swung back the door. “There you are, gentlemen!” You should have seen that crowd of reporters and politicians—you could have bowled the whole row of them over with a feather.

Raidler: Yes, and for a bunch of lying crooks in office! What difference does it make to Jimmie whether one set of thieves or another got that money? I’ve done jobs I’m ashamed of in my life, but never anything as dirty as those fellows up there in the state capitol do all the time. I’m not their kind of crook!

Jennings: I remember when I was on trial, a religious lady came to cry over me. She thought I was a sweet-looking little fellow, and she said, “Can it really be, Mr. Jennings, that you are thief?” “No, ma’am,” says I; “I’m a robber.” “And what is the difference, Mr. Jennings?” “About forty-five years, ma’am,” says I. But she didn’t know what I meant.

Delacour: Mr. Jennin’s, Ah’m thinkin’ we have guided this conversation into painful channels.

Raidler: Give us some more punch, Judge.

Judge: I am desolated to infawm you, suh, that’s all there is.

Jennings: What? You call that a celebration?

Judge: I made it good and strong, suh.

Jennings: Yes; but this is Christmas eve!

Raidler: And you agreed to bring the makings! Why, you grasping old note-shaver, you skinny old white bond-worm—

Jennings: This is not Christmas at all, this is a swindle, a hold-up, a crime! I’ll denounce you to the main finger!

Judge: You know the danger, suh, if you get drunk in this place—

Raidler: Drunk? Hell and blazes, what do you mean, drunk on one glass of punch?

Jennings: How would you know when I’m drunk?

Porter: The Colonel has certain standards of his own, Judge. If he were drunk, the air of this room would be full of fluttering white pigeons, emerging from those pigeon-holes now apparently full of mail; every postage-stamp would become a shining red or green eye, according to the denomination, winking cross-eyed if the stamp were canceled; a pink classic nymph would emerge from yon doorway and dance upon the table, treading lightly between the dishes; the tops of the shelves would be traversed by a company of beribboned cats, marching in stupendous aerial procession. A few things like that, and the Colonel would know that Christmas had come to stay.

Delacour (getting to his feet): Mr. Porter, Ah would sho’ly like to see those phenomena. Ah will see what Ah can do.

Raidler: Hurrah for the fat boy!

Jennings: Does your prison bootlegger work nights?

Delacour: Ah’ll see about it. There are ways, and ways. (exit right)

Raidler: There’s graft for you! His money can get anything, any time.

Judge: You’ll manage to forgive his liquor, suh!

Raidler: Oh, I’ll drink liquor any time I can get it; but all the same, it’s a rotten graft. They’d put me in the hole if they knew I was taking the stamps to mail out Bill’s stories to the magazines, but the men that run this prison will let the big contractors steal tens of thousands of dollars, and take their share of the rake-off. Oh, yes, this is the sweet land of liberty—for the money-squeezers that live in Bankers’ Row—

Judge: Mr. Raidler has mounted his soap-box again!

Porter: Gentlemen, gentlemen; you are mixing your occasions. This is not an election campaign, nor yet the grand and glorious Fourth of July. Colonel, do you remember Hop-along Bibb, that charming person we met in San Salvador, and how he mixed his celebrations when he got liquor on board?

Jennings: Tell the story, and cheer them up!

Porter: A short tale and a merry one. Hop-along Bibb was down and out, so he married himself to a snuff-brown lady who kept a rum-shop in the Calle de los Forty-seven Inconsolable Saints. When his credit was played out there, he went to work on a banana-plantation, along with an English tramp by the name of Liverpool Sam. If you’ve never been in a banana grove, gentlemen, it will be hard to imagine what that means. The place is as solemn as a Rathskeller at seven a. m. You can’t see the sky for the foliage about you, and the ground is knee deep in rotting leaves. Hop-along and Liverpool slept in a grass hut, along with red, yellow, and black employes, and there they’d lie all night fighting mosquitoes and listening to the monkeys squalling and the alligators grunting and splashing in the lagoon. After they had been there a few months they had lost all sense of the fugiting of tempus—there was nothing to tell them about the seasons, so when they came back to town, and found the American consulate all decorated with flowers and flags, they weren’t sure what it meant. A preacher man took pity on their penniless estate, and gave Hop-along two dollars and told him to celebrate the day; so they bought a quart of rum, and got drunk under a cocoanut tree, and then Hop-along decided to celebrate proper and patriotic, so he jumped onto Liverpool and licked him to a frazzle and then dragged the remains back to the preacher. “Look at this, sir,” says he—“look at this thing that was once a proud Britisher. You gave us two dollars and told us to celebrate the day. The star-spangled banner still waves! Hurrah for the stars and eagles!” To which the preacher answers: “Dear me! Fighting on this day of days! On Christmas day, when peace on earth—” “Christmas day?” says Hop-along. “Hell, man! I thought it was the Fourth of July!”

(a burst of laughter; they pound on the table)

Joe: Haw, haw, haw! (then, discovering that he has attracted attention to himself, he shrinks back abashed)

Jennings: Bill, ’tis a sad thing to contemplate what drink will do to the mind of a man.

Porter: Take my advice, Colonel; steer clear of it.

Raidler: I say, let Bill write that story and earn the makings for next Christmas!

Jennings: I wish that fat old financial parasite would come with the makings for this one.

Raidler: If he don’t hurry, I’ll forget what I’ve already had.

Jennings (the door opens and Valentine enters, left): Jimmie Valentine!

Valentine (feeble, barely able to stagger, grey in color, with face drawn): Hello—boys.

Jennings (springs to help him): What’s the matter? (Joe also helps, and they lead Valentine to Jennings’ seat)

Valentine (speaks with difficulty): Nothin’, boys—nothin’ special. Just thought—like to be with friends. Buck me up.

Joe (in voice of grief): Po Jimmie Valentine!

Raidler: Something’s gone wrong!

Valentine: I let ’em take me to the dinin’ room; thought—cheer me up—Christmas carols—singin’—Jesus Christ (the corners of his mouth drawn down, his voice becomes a snarl of fury) Little Jesus—meek an’ mild—angels singin’—heavenly child. Hell and damnation! (they divine something serious, and gradually an idea dawns upon them; they stare in horror)

Jennings: My God, Jimmie!

Porter: What have they done?

Raidler: Speak up, man!

Valentine: Brought me the news—Christmas present—love and mercy.

Jennings: You don’t mean it?

Valentine: Yeah—guv’ner turned me down. No pardon—too dangerous.

Raidler: Who told you that?

Valentine: It’s in the papers. Somebody yelled it in the dinin’ room—broke up their Christmas carols. Men howlin’ like devils.

Raidler: Now ain’t that a horror?

Jennings: God damn the crooks that run this state!

Joe: Oh, po Jimmie Valentine!

Valentine: Take it easy, boys—I expected it.

Raidler (strikes his fist on the table): They kept the news for today!

Jennings (shaking his clenched hands in the air): And you can’t do a damned thing! You’ve got to take it!

Valentine: Forget it, forget it.

Porter (rises suddenly, pale with anger): This is the end for me! I’ll stand no more! (starts toward the door)

Jennings (in alarm): What do you mean, Bill?

Porter: I mean I’m going to have it out with the warden.

Jennings: What can you do?

Porter: At least I can tell him what I think of him and his prison.

Valentine: No, no! (general confusion of protest)

Jennings (leaps up and stops him by main force): Good God, Bill, have you gone crazy?

Porter: I’ve watched the cruelty and the stealing and the rottenness in this place till I’ve been sick at my stomach; I’ve kept my mouth shut, I’ve looked out for myself and my own skin. But this is the limit; I’m going to speak up for Jimmie, if it’s my last act on earth.

Valentine: Forget it, Mr. Porter.

Jennings: Bill, you shan’t do it. Hold him, Joe! Wait, and listen to me!

Joe (helping Jennings): Naw, Misteh Porteh, naw suh!

Raidler (unable to move, but reaching over the table as if to help): Keep your shirt on, Bill!

Valentine: Sit down, Mr. Porter—there’s nothin’ to that.

Jennings: Bill, let’s take a knife off this table and cut our two throats. Will you do that with me?

Porter: What, Colonel?

Jennings: Jimmie here would care, and Raidler, and half a dozen other men in the place—all as helpless as he is, sitting here paralyzed. Tomorrow we’d be buried, and in three days we’d be forgotten, and the graft would be going right on. Bill Porter, who do you think you are? What do they care for you?

Porter: I care for myself, Colonel.

Jennings: How much? My God, man, they’d take you down to the basement, and tie you flat on your stomach, and beat you with paddles till every inch of you was one black and bloody wound. Ain’t that right, Jimmie?

Valentine: Sure it’s right—he knows it.

Jennings: They’d give you the water—stuff a hose in your mouth, and fill you till you fainted and turned black all over! Are you ready for that?

Valentine: Come, sit down, Mr. Porter.

Porter (weakening): Colonel—

Jennings: Bill, you can’t go up against this machine—you’re not built of that kind of stuff. Wait till you get out—then tell somebody if you want to; but there’s nothing you can do now, you’ve got to swallow your grief—this time, like all the other times. Come back here, Bill, and sit down. (leads him to his seat; the door opens, right, and Delacour enters with a quart bottle in his hand) Ah! Our banker friend arrives—just in the nick of time! Here, Bill, this is the remedy—an old remedy, tried and true, for the troubles a man can’t endure.

Valentine: Sure—give him a drink.

Jennings (takes the bottle from the Judge): What’s this label say? “Spiritus frumenti.” A nice, pious medical label! Down in Latin-America, you remember, they call it “Espiritu de la Vina.” There too they sometimes have troubles more than mortal flesh can stand; and they know Dr. Barleycorn’s old-established remedy. (he pours a glass full) Drink, Bill, take it quick, take it raw, and slide into oblivion. When you come out again, things will be duller, your grief won’t weigh so heavy, you’ll have a headache and a fuzzy tongue and a few other things to think about. (presses the glass upon him) Down with it! For Jimmie and me, if not for yourself, Bill! (as Porter drinks) There, that’s better! That’s the philosopher! (as Porter drains the glass and sinks back into his chair, Jennings pours the rest of the bottle into the other five glasses) Here, gentlemen, we won’t wait for Creole style, we’ll take it a la Texas. (sings)

Like every regular fellow I takes my whiskey clear

For I’m a rambling rake o’ poverty and a son of a gambolier!

Joe: Jes a drap fo de niggeh, boss. (he gets a share, and they all lift their glasses, sing the chorus, and drink)

Valentine (lifts his half-empty glass): Here’s to my next hemorrhage—may she come quick!

Jennings: A happier world for Jimmie!

Raidler: Where they’ll give him his pardon!

All (in a flat and feeble tone): Hurrah! Hurrah! (Porter sinks his head into his arms on the table, in which position he remains during the following scene. Joe brings chair for Jennings, who sits down, singing and orating; the other members of the party cheer and pound upon the table, and the lights begin to wink and stagger, alternately red and white; red searchlights play here and there, producing a drunken effect)

Jennings (sings):

In the sweet bye and bye

We shall meet on that beautiful shore

All:

We shall sing on that beautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blest,
And our spirits shall sorrow no more,
Not a sigh for the blessing of rest.
In the sweet bye and bye,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore,
In the sweet bye and bye,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

Jennings: Fellow members of the Recluse Club, the shore which I select for our meeting is one you come to as you sail south from Galveston, fleeing from the bloodhounds of the law. Our great master of literature, Bill Porter, has described it in one of his immortal compositions, which I have this day been privileged to read. (takes manuscript from pocket and reads) “A clump of banana plants interposed their broad shields between him and the sun. The gentle slope from the consulate to the sea was covered with the dark-green foliage of lemon-trees and orange-trees just bursting into bloom. A lagoon pierced the land like a dark, jagged crystal, and above it a pale ceiba-tree rose almost to the clouds. The waving cocoanut palms on the beach flared their decorative green leaves against the slate of an almost quiescent sea. His senses were cognizant of brilliant scarlet and ochres amid the vert of the coppice, of odors of fruit and bloom and the smoke from Chanca’s clay oven under the calabash-tree; of the treble laughter of the native women in their huts, the song of the robin, the salt taste of the breeze, the diminuendo of the faint surf running along the shore.”

Such is the coast of Honduras after you have had a sufficient inoculation of the native aguardiente; otherwise it seems as I have jotted down on the margin of this manuscript: “Take a lot of Filipino huts and a couple of hundred brick-kilns and arrange ’em in squares in a cemetery. Cart down all the conservatory plants in the Astor and Vanderbilt greenhouses, and stick ’em about wherever there’s room. Turn all the Bellevue patients and the barbers’ convention and the Tuskegee school loose in the streets, and run the thermometer up to 120 in the shade. Set a fringe of the Rocky Mountains around the rear, let it rain, and set the whole business on Rockaway Beach in the middle of January.”

Fellow members of the Recluse Club, the day that Bill Porter and I first met on that beautiful shore, I was a wonderful object for the eye to behold. I had been attending a dinner-dance in the best society of Galveston, when I got the tip that the minions of the law had the house surrounded. I made my escape by a stratagem, and got aboard a steamer in the Gulf of Mexico, clad in a silk hat and dress-suit; in which costume I sailed for two weeks, battered in storms, and losing one tail off my coat. So I was dumped out in the little town of Trojillo, where I first saw our genial master of letters, seated in front of the consulate, clad in spotless white. Recognizing our common condition of fugitivity, we pooled our fates; I had thirty thousand dollars sewed up in my belt which I had got with the help of two sticks of dynamite, from the Wells-Fargo express car on a Santa Fe train. Together we went to worship at the shrine of the reigning divinity of Central America, a lady called Espiritu de la Vina, to whom they chant hymns by day and especially by night—(he sings)

A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.

(Espiritu de la Vina enters, dancing and singing; Jennings joins in dance with her)

De este sabroso jugo, la blanca espuma
Aleja de las penas la negra bruma,
Si dios hubiera hecho
De vino el mar, de vino el mar,
Yo me volviera pato, para nadar, para nadar:—
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas,
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas.

Jennings: Gentlemen of the jury, the month of July found us in Salvador, where we, as good American patriots, issued a declaration of interference that the Fourth of July shall be celebrated with all kinds of salutes, explosions, honors of war, oratory, and liquids known to tradition. It so happened that there were Salvadoreans also panting for liberty and liquids; there was a revolution planned, led by General Mary Esperanza Dingo, who was some punkins both for politics and color; but we had never met the general, and knew nothing about these great events. We gathered the Americans of the town, with their Winchesters, Colts and Navy forty-fives; we bought up all the fireworks, and most of the fire-water, and early in the evening, as soon as the thermometer had come down to 110, we started in at the Saloon of the Immaculate Saints—the Cantina de los Santos Immaculatos—taking all the drinks that bore American labels, and informing the atmosphere as to the glory and preeminence of the United States, and its ability to subdue, outjump and eradicate the other nations of the earth. I had just thrown a bottle of ginger ale through a portrait of Queen Victoria—or rather at a reflection of it which I saw in a mirror over the counter of the cantina—when we heard yells outside, and the galloping of horses’ hoofs, and a rattle of musketry. (the sounds are heard off-stage, as described; Jennings raises his voice) I shouted: “The infantry has turned out to do honor to the Fourth of July! E pluribus unum! Viva la Libertad! The stars and stripes forever!” We pulled out our shooting irons! Hurrah for liberty! We opened fire on the lights of the cantina—

(Jennings pulls a gun from under his coat and fires at the lights, which go out one by one at his shots, leaving the stage in complete darkness. Shouts, singing, trampling, and general uproar, during which a quick change is made. The wall which covers the kitchenette is closed, concealing it from sight. The postoffice pigeon-holes and grilled windows give outwards like double doors, leaving a large entrance to the street of Salvador. The stage becomes a cantina, or drinking place. Jennings assumes his costume of a battered silk hat and a dress-suit with only one tail to the coat. The others don the white costumes of Americans in the tropics. Red light gradually appears, revealing Espiritu de la Vina dancing and singing, Porter watching and the other five men, armed with rifles and revolvers, capering, shouting, and firing shots through the ceiling of the cantina. Joe is hiding in terror under the table.)

Jennings: Three cheers for the red, white and blue!

Raidler: Bully for you!

All: Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

Valentine: Ray fer Yankee Doodle!

Judge: The stars and stripes fo’ever, suh!

Porter: God save the union!

Raidler: Up with the declaration of independence! (boom of cannon outside)

Jennings: Our celebration has caught on!

Raidler: Liberty comes to Salvador!

Espiritu (springs to the front, waving an American flag in one hand and a Salvador flag in the other): It is ze great Salvador revolution! The day of liberty is arrive! Ze great emancipator, ze great Salvador hero, ze General Mary Esperanza Dingo! He come, he ride ze horseback! Hail!

General Dingo (rides in from street on prancing horse, waving a sword): Americanos! Amigos! Friends of ze great Libertad!

All: Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

General: Ze Libertad iss peril! Ze tyrant strike ze Salvador people! Assistance, amigos! Will ze Americanos defend?

Jennings: We will! You bet we will!

Raidler: Hooray for liberty!

Valentine: Down with the government!

Jennings: Death to the tyrant! Forward!

General: I lead, amigos! Forward! Charge ze battle!

(he prances out to street, followed by Jennings, Raidler, Valentine, Delacour, and the Judge; a volley and shouts of battle, rapidly receding)

Espiritu (stands in doorway, shouts in frenzy): Ze enemy run! Los Americanos win! La libertad iss save! Viva el General Dingo! (exit to street cheering)

Joe (peering out from under table): Misteh Porteh?

Porter (stands by the table, staring before him, with his hand to his forehead, as if dazed by the confusion): Well?

Joe: You reckon Ah kin come out now? (as Porter does not answer, he crawls out with burlesque terror. Silence; then faint strains of soft music, and the light changes to pale violet)

Margaret (enters in dreamlike fashion at right, clad as in Act I, and carrying her dolly): Oh, Papa, such a lovely dolly!

Porter (tenderly): You got her in time for Christmas, sweetheart?

Margaret: Oh, yes, Papa! Oh, Papa, I’m having such a nice Christmas! So many lovely presents! But your dolly is the nicest of all! When you lay her down she shuts her eyes, like she was really asleep, and when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!” Try it, Papa. (Porter takes dolly and squeezes her and the sound is heard)

Joe (has been making pantomime of sympathy. Now he gives a warning cry): Look, out, Misteh Porteh! (the character of the music changes, the light changes to dark red, and three immense prison guards enter, armed with heavy paddles, and creep upon Porter)

Margaret (as they seize Porter, screams in fright): Papa! Papa!

(One of the guards seizes Margaret and carries her off right, crying. The other two seize Porter and throw him down and bind him to the floor. Joe makes pantomime of impotent despair. The guards take the paddles and proceed to beat Porter. At the first blows the light begins to fade, and after two or three blows the scene is in total darkness. The sounds of the blows increase to heavy crashings, and Porter’s moans rise to a general wailing and shouting, which cover a quick change to the scene of the feast in the prison postoffice. When the change has been completed, the sounds die away, and white light breaks gradually upon the scene, revealing general disorder and wreck. Delacour is asleep in his chair, his head thrown back and his mouth open. The Judge has slid under the table. Jennings and Valentine sleep with their heads bowed on the table. Raidler has had his chair upset and is asleep on the floor. Joe lies on the floor at one side, flat on his back. Porter sits leaning on the table staring before him, brooding. It is Christmas morning, and off-stage there arises the sound of fresh young voices singing a Christmas carol)

It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold;
Peace on the earth, good-will to men,
From heaven’s all-gracious King;
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled;
And still their heavenly music floats
O’er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lonely plains
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o’er its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.

O ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow!
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh, rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing.

CURTAIN.

ACT IV.

Scene: The drug-store, as in Acts I and II.

At rise: The line of convicts is filing past the counter, as at the opening of Act I, having their prescriptions put up by Porter. They are in a state of angry excitement, with difficulty repressed by the guards. Every man is moaning or snarling at every moment when the guards’ eyes are not upon him. The guards move here and there, threatening men with their clubs and commanding: “Silence! Shut up there! Hold your tongue!” But at some other place in the line men will shout, exclamations which are repeated again and again: “Jimmie Valentine is dead! You murdered Jimmie Valentine! Liars! Scoundrels! To hell with you! To hell with the state of Ohio! God damn this prison! You killed Jimmie Valentine! Murderers!” Porter fills the prescriptions, keeping tightly shut lips, but his hands are trembling, and it is evident that he also is deeply moved. Joe is making his usual pretense of cleaning up, but with difficulty, because of his excitement; he turns this way and that as he hears the cries, and his eyes are staring wide. Finally the last of the line is driven off, and the roaring dies away to a murmur.

Joe: Gawdamighty, Misteh Porteh, de men in his place is sho gone crazy! Dey is somethin goin to bust loose here tonight. (Porter makes no reply, but puts away his boxes and bottles) Oh, dat po feller, Jimmie Valentine! Didn’t even give him a chance to see his po ole mammy! Misteh Porteh, did you hear what dey say bout her? (silence from Porter) Dey say she’s stannin all day out by de gate in de snow. Dey won’t even let her in to see de body; dey ain’t tole her when dey gwine bury him. What you spose dey got agin dat po ole woman? (No answer) Ah knows how it is, Misteh Porteh, you doan trust yoself to open yo mouth bout his hyar business. Well, Ah seen times when I’d missed a lot o trouble if Ah’d kep my mouf shut. Maybe dis is one of em. Well, Ah go empty de trash-basket. (takes the basket and goes off left. Porter sits at his desk, staring in front of him)

Dr. Walters (enters right): Well, Porter?

Porter: Good evening, doctor.

Dr.: Having trouble here this evening?

Porter: A little noise.

Dr.: Too bad! Too bad! A nasty situation. Looks as if it might be worse before it’s better. What do you think?

Porter: I am here as an inmate, doctor; I am not supposed to have opinions.

Dr.: Humph! Discretion is the better part of valor. Well, have you anything to report to me?

Porter: I took the liberty of sewing up the head of a guard who had a spike thrown at him.

Dr.: Seems a good job; thank you.

Porter: Here is the week’s report. (hands him paper; he takes the paper and examines it. Joe appears at door, left, with empty trash-basket; seeing the doctor he stops, and thus overhears the conversation which follows)

Dr.: By the way, another matter—not a pleasant one. (he goes to the shelf and takes bottle of alcohol) This alcohol continues to disappear.

Porter: I don’t think so, sir.

Dr.: You don’t? (he holds it to the light critically)

Porter: I have had occasion to use quite a little of it on my night’s rounds.

Dr.: Indeed? (a pause) I think it will be advisable for me to go with you on your rounds, and see how that happens.

Porter: Certainly, doctor. (a pause) There is something I will say about that.

Dr.: Well?

Porter: I hope you are not suspecting me of being a thief.

Dr.: I have no right to do so; but it is my duty to try to make certain about the matter. We cannot have drinking going on in this institution, especially at such a ticklish time as this. I don’t like the job of playing detective, but somebody has to do it.

Porter: Doctor, I wish you to understand something that I have never before talked about in this place. I am here because I was accused of taking bank funds; but somebody else got that money—I did not. I am taking what fate handed out to me, but I wish you to know that I am not that sort of man.

Dr.: I possess a normal amount of discernment, Porter, and I appreciate your services in this position; it is not always easy to find a registered pharmacist in a prison.

Porter: Thank you, doctor.

Dr.: Nevertheless, it will be my duty to go the rounds with you this evening.

Porter: Very well. (the doctor goes out, right, and Porter remains seated at his desk, staring gloomily before him)

Joe (comes on, puts down the empty trash-basket, and begins feeble pretense at dusting the bottles and boxes): Misteh Porteh, you didn’t see po Jimmie Valentine befo he died, did you? (silence) Ah spose you jes couldnt bear it. Lordy, but mah eyes is sore wid all dis cryin. (silence) Dat Docteh Walters is a stiff kindeh genleman, aint he, Misteh Porteh? (silence) He say he doan like to play detective, but he do it good, seem to me.

Porter (sternly): What do you know about that?

Joe (scared): Ah was comin, Misteh Porteh—Ah had to come in wid de trash-basket, Ah couldn’t hep hearin. Ah wasnt meanin to spy—de Lawd knows Ah aint no detective, naw suh! (silence) But you know (timidly) Ah was goin be yo body-servant, and kindeh look out fo you; an Ah know dat Docteh Walters is a stiff kindeh genleman—he’s a Yankee genleman, not like dey is in de South.

Porter: Get out of here now and stop your chatter.

Joe (goes right, towards the door into hospital; as he reaches the door a low murmur comes from the next room, and rises to a clamor of moans and protest; Joe looks off, then turns to Porter): Oh, Misteh Porteh, dey’s come to put dat po Jimmie Valentine in de wheel-barrow. An dey aint let his po ole Mammy see him! Oh, dat po feller! Oh, dat po feller! He’s daid an gone an dey goin to put him in de wheel-barrow! (his voice rises to a wail as he goes off right)

Porter (puts his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds; his manner indicating utter despair and breakdown): Oh, God! Oh, God! (as the clamor from the next room continues, he rises, looks about him cautiously, and then crosses to the shelf containing the bottle of alcohol. He takes a glass and starts to pour some out)

Joe (reappears in doorway, right, and watches Porter, then runs quickly to him in distress): Oh, Misteh Porteh, naw suh, you mussnt do dat, suh!

Porter (angrily): What the devil have you to do with it?

Joe (in frenzy of fear): Oh, Misteh Porteh, suh, dat Docteh Walters fin’ it out! Oh, suh, de Lawd hep us, suh, dey put you in de hole, dey take you down in de basement and paddle you, dey give you de water sho—you couldn’t stan it, Misteh Porteh, oh suh, please suh—doan let em ketch you takin it!

Porter (draws himself up with dignity): Joe, you are making a presumptuous fool of yourself.

Joe: Listen, Misteh Porteh, suh, you aint quite yosef right now, Ah knows how it is, suh, you mos crazy oveh what happen to dat po Jimmie Valentine! But oh, suh, please suh—doan take it out o dat bottle—

Porter: You black ape, how do you know what’s in this bottle?

Joe: Ah knows, Misteh Porteh, Ah sho knows!

Porter: I thought you said you couldn’t read.

Joe: Hanwritin, Misteh Porteh, hanwritin. But Ah knows what’s in dat bottle, cause Ah done tuck it mahself—many’s a time—

Porter: Why, you infernal scoundrel!

Joe: Befo you come hyar, Misteh Porteh, Ah tuck it. Not since you come, boss. Ah wouldn’t do nothin to git you into trouble. Aint you tole me Ah was yo body-servant, jes like mah ole daddy in de Jedge Adair famly?

Porter: Was it the duty of the body-servant to run his master’s life?

Joe: Yes, Misteh Porteh, hones, it sho nuff was. (he grins) Misteh Porteh, lemme tell you story—a sho nuff true story, what you kin write—it’s what mah ole daddy tole me jes befo he died—he hadn’t never tole it befo, but he wanted me to know bout Jedge Adair an de famly troubles. De Jedge, he was president of de Traders’ Bank, and de bank was gittin into trouble. Mah ole daddy he know bout what was goin on, an he seen de Jedge was worried, he was drinkin too much whiskey. An one night mah ole daddy had to go to de bank, it was somethin what he had forgot to do, so he went at night—he had a key, cause de Jedge he trusted him wid everything. Well, mah ole daddy was in dah, and he heard someone a foolin wid de do’. He thought it was a burglar, so he hid hisself, and who should he see come into de bank but de Jedge hisself. De Jedge went to de vault, an he open it, an he take out a suit-case and start to go off wid it. Mah ole daddy he guess right quick what dat meant, de Jedge was in trouble an goin to run away wid de money of de bank. So mah ole daddy come out an speak to him an plead wid him fo de honor of de famly not to take dat suit-case; and de Jedge, first he was mad, den he choke a little, an he say, all right, an say no mo, an mah ole daddy drive him to de depot an he go away widout de suit-case.

Porter (puts the bottle back in its place and stands thinking about the story): Where did he go, Joe?

Joe: He went fishin, Misteh Porteh.

Porter: Fishing!

Joe: Yessuh; he was a goin fishin wid Cunnel Gwathmey.

Porter: But what did he want with the bank’s money if he was going fishing?

Joe: Ah dunno dat, boss; maybe he meant to hide it.

Porter: Did the judge ever admit to your father what he had in that suit-case?

Joe: Naw, suh, he doan never speak of it again.

Porter: And your father never had a chance to look into it?

Joe: Naw, suh.

Porter: And you say the judge was drinking too much?

Joe: Yes, suh, dey was talk of it.

Porter: Well, you ebony jackass, you woolly baboon! (a chuckle) You wait, and I’ll write that story, and read it to you, and you’ll see what it was Judge Adair left behind him when he went fishing with Colonel Gwathmey!

Joe (puzzled, but pleased to have accomplished his purpose): All right, boss, Ah sho be glad to hear dat story. Yes suh, Ah be glad to hear any story what you write, cause Ah sho been hearin a lot bout dis writin you’re doin—(sounds of shrieks from under the stage; Joe starts) Oh, Misteh Porteh, dey beatin some po felleh fo makin a noise! Dey be beatin a whole pile of em—all night long, fo helpin in dis ruction! Us gotta stay here all night an lissen to em, Misteh Porteh; you gotta stan it somehow!

Porter (distracted): Yes, I’ve got to stand it!

Joe (a fresh roar from the hospital, off right): Oh, dat po Jimmie Valentine! (he goes to door and looks off) Oh, dey got him in de wheel-barrow! Dat po Jimmie Valentine, dey takin him to de dead-house, an his po ole mammy aint seen him! (the sound of the wheel-barrow off right, approaching)

Porter (wildly): Turn off that light, Joe. I can’t stand the sight of it! (he staggers to the desk, and falls into the chair, his head buried in his arms).

Joe (switches off the light. His voice rises to a shriek): Dat po Jimmie Valentine! Dat po Jimmie Valentine!

(The wheel-barrow crosses from right to left, as in Act I. The sounds of its bumping become thunderous; these sounds, with the clamor from the hospital, the cries from under the stage, and the wailing of Joe, cover a quick change to the bank scene as in Act II. Joe exit. When the change is complete, the noise dies away, and violet light appears upon the scene, disclosing Porter seated at the desk in the bank, staring before him in deep thought.)

Jimmie Valentine (enters, in his dapper business man aspect; he greets Porter with quiet friendliness): Hello, Mr. Porter.

Porter (quietly, in half-dream fashion): Hellow, Jimmie. (pause) Jimmie, I’m a damned coward.

Jimmie: Oh, no, Mr. Porter.

Porter: I didn’t come to see you before you died, Jimmie; I ducked on it.

Jimmie: Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Porter, I understood that.

Porter: I just couldn’t bear it; I knew I’d break down, and I ran away.

Jimmie: There wasn’t a thing you could do, Mr. Porter—it was better to have it over with.

Porter: And that poor old mother of yours, waiting outside at the gate in the snow—

Jimmie: It wouldn’t have done any good for me to see her, Mr. Porter. Nothing would really make her happy but to have me back as a kid.

Porter: Life doesn’t do us that favor, Jimmie.

Jimmie: I know it. But I’m all right now. I’m going to marry a sweet girl, and be vice-president of this bank before long. Would you like me to show you how I opened the vault?

Porter: No, Jimmie, no! That’s another way I was a coward; I wrote it differently—I had you use a kit of tools.

Jimmie: That’s all right, Mr. Porter—that’s the way I wanted it. People will see me like I wanted to be, and maybe that’ll help some poor kid to keep straight. Write your stories that way, and people will get some good out of them. Well, so long, Mr. Porter.

Porter: So long, Jimmie. (he rises and goes left, to wave Jimmie off; after Jimmie has gone, he stands partly in the shadows; the light grows dimmer)

(Uncle Caesar enters right; he is Joe, made up as his old father, but wearing blue uniform and cap. He pays no attention to Porter, but takes some papers from cashier’s drawer and puts them in his pocket, and is about to leave, when there is a sound at the door off right; he steps back into the shadows and stands watching as the Judge enters, made up as Judge Adair, bank president, clad in long waterproof coat, waterproof fisherman’s hat, and carrying several fishing rods, disjointed and wrapped in little cloth covers. The Judge does not see Porter or Caesar, but sets his rods on the desk and goes to the vault and turns the combination and opens it; he goes in and comes out at once, carrying suit-case)

Caesar (having watched this procedure with signs of intense concern, now comes forward, hesitating and trembling): Marse Jedge.

Judge (starts): Who’s that? Caesar? Why, you old blackguard, what the devil you doin’ here this time of night?

Caesar: Ah done tole Sisteh Adeline Hoskins to come to mah house at sebin o’clock tomorrer mawnin, fo to git de pass-book of de Sons and Daughters of de Burnin Bush, fo to kyar it to de meetin of de bo’d of rangements. Ah done fogit it, so Ah come to git it.

Judge: Humph! You better get home out of the night air. It’s damp. You’ll hardly be worth killing tomorrow on account of your rheumatism. Think it’ll be a clear day, Caesar?

Caesar (terribly embarrassed and frightened, but summoning his resolution and stammering): Ah low it will, suh. De sun sot red las night Marse Jedge, you member de day dey-all rode de tunnament at Oak Lawn? De day, suh, dat you win in de ridin, and you crown Miss Lucy de queen?

Judge: Tournament? Yes, I remember very well—but what the deuce are you talking about tournaments here at midnight for? Go long home, Caesar. I believe you’re sleep-walking.

Caesar: Miss Lucy tetch you on de shoulder, wid a sword, an say: “Ah mek you a knight; rise up, pure an fearless an widout reproach.” Dat what Miss Lucy say. Dat’s been a long time ago, but me nor you ain’t forgot it. An den dar’s another time we ain’t forgot—de time when Miss Lucy lay on her las bed. She sent for Uncle Caesar, an she say: “Uncle Caesar, when Ah die, Ah want you to take good care of Marse Jedge. Seem like”—so Miss Lucy say—“he listen to you mo dan to anybody else. He apt to be mighty fractious sometimes, an maybe he cuss you when you try to suade him, but he need somebody what understan him to be roun wid him. He am like a little child sometimes”—so Miss Lucy say, wid her eyes shinin in her po, thin face—“but he always been”—dem was her words—“my knight, pure an fearless an widout reproach.”

Judge: You—you old windbag! I believe you are crazy. I told you to go home, Caesar. Miss Lucy said that, did she? Well, we haven’t kept the scutcheon very clear. Two years ago last week, wasn’t it, Caesar, when she died? Confound it! Are you going to stand there all night gabbing like a coffee-colored gander?

Caesar: Marse Jedge, fo Gawd’s sake, doan take dis wid you. Ah knows what’s in it. Don kyar it wid you. Dey’s big trouble in dat valise for you. Hit’s bound to destroy de name of Adair an bow down dem dat own it wid shame and triberlation. Marse Judge, you can kill dis ole nigger ef you will, but don’t take away dis hyar valise. If Ah ever crosses over de Jordan, what Ah gwine to say to Miss Lucy when she ax me: “Uncle Caesar, wharfo didn you take good care of Marse Jedge?”

Judge: Caesar, you have overstepped all bounds. You have presumed upon the leniency with which you have been treated to meddle unpardonably. So you know what is in this satchel! Your long and faithful service is some excuse, but—go home, Caesar—not another word!

Caesar: Marse Jedge, gimme dis hyar valise. Ah got a right, suh, to talk to you dis hyar way. Ah slaved fo you an tended to you from a child up. I went th’ough de war as yo body-servant tell we whipped de Yankees an sent em back to de No’th. Ah was at yo weddin, an Ah was n fur away when yo Miss Azalea was bawn. Ah been a Adair, all cept in color an ’titlements. Both of us is old, Marse Jedge. Taint goin to be long tell we gwine to see Miss Lucy an has to give an account of our doins. De ole nigger man wont be spected to say much mo dan he done all he could by de famly dat owned him. But de Adairs, dey must say dey been livin pure an fearless an widout reproach. Gimme dis valise, Marse Jedge—Ah’m gwine to hab it. Ah’m gwine to do Miss Lucy’s biddin. Turn er loose, Marse Jedge.

Judge: Take it, Caesar. And let the subject drop—now mind! You’ve said quite enough.

Jennings (calls off right): Hello, there, Judge! Are you comin? (enters, as Colonel Gwathmey, in fishing costume, with rods) We’ll miss that train. What’s the matter here?

Judge: Well, Colonel, I’ve been having a little trouble. I came in to get the liquor that I had in this suit-case—

Caesar (with gestures of amazement and confusion): What’s dat you say, Marse Jedge?

Judge: I said the liquor that I had in this suit-case. What did you think I had in it?

Caesar (staggered): Ah—Ah—oh—Ah—dat is—(recovering himself suddenly) Dat’s right, Marse Jedge, de liquor. Ah didn’t zacly hear straight, Ah’s gittin so ole—mah ears is wusser an wusser—

Judge (to Jennings): Well, this infernally presumptuous old nigger has been breaking up our arrangements. I don’t know how he found out what I was doing—I had the liquor hid in that vault, and was trying to sneak it out, but here he is, and he’s vetoed the proceedings. He means right, and—well, I reckon he is right. He has noticed that I’ve been indulging a little more than a gentleman should, and he has laid for me some reaching arguments.

Jennings: Well, I’ll be hornswoggled.

Judge: I’m going to quit drinking. I’ve come to the conclusion that a man can’t keep it up and be quite what he’d like to be—“pure and fearless and without reproach”—that’s the way old Caesar quoted it.

Jennings: Well, I’ll have to admit that the old darkey’s argument can’t conscientiously be overruled.

Judge: Still (with a ghost of a smile) there are two quarts of the finest old silk-velvet Bourbon in that satchel you ever wet your lips with. Take it home, Caesar, and put it somewhere I can’t find it!

Caesar: Yes, Marse Jedge; thank’ee, Cunnel Gwathmey. Ah hopes you genlemen has a good fishin day. Looks to me like it promise mighty fine weather—de sun sot red las night, an you know what dat means fo fishermen’s luck. Ah members one time when de Jedge an me was youngsters—(the three of them go off, at right, in the midst of the Negro’s chatter)

Porter (wanders about distracted; goes to cashier’s drawer and opens it): It’s gone! It’s gone! The money isn’t here that ought to be here. And they’ll blame me for it! Oh, why did I ever come into a bank? What do I know about taking care of money? (he stops and gazes at Athol, who enters right, clad as in Act I)

Athol (drifts towards him, dreamlike, silent; at last she whispers): Will!

Porter: Athol! (with intense distress) Sweetheart, some of the money is gone from the drawer, and they’re blaming me for it. You know how it is—people take money out, and they’re supposed to put in a slip, but they forget to do it and what can I do?

Athol: Will, dear, I love you.

Porter: They are going to put me in prison—five years, they’ve sentenced me to. And when I come out, I’ll be an ex-convict. People will brand me with it—I’ll never be able to escape!

Athol: Will, dear.

Porter (sobs): Sweetheart, I can’t go to prison, oh, I can’t stand it! I’m going to die! I’ll kill myself!

Athol (gently): No, Will, you won’t do that. You know that I love you. And there is Margaret—who would take care of her? I can’t last much longer, you know.

Porter: Oh, God, I can’t stand being in prison—the things they’ll do to me! They’ll handcuff me, and shave my head, and put me in stripes—they may even beat me! I’ll come out a maniac!

Athol: Whatever they do, you will stand it for my sake. And you will come out, and start over, and be yourself. You know my faith in you, Will—and you have to be the thing I have dreamed.

Porter (with sudden intensity): Listen, Athol, there is an easy way to die; the thought of it haunts me—to die for the poor devils in prison! That’s what I ought to do—take a stand against the graft and cruelty, and let anything come that will!

Athol (embraces him, tenderly, as if he were her child): A man’s wife learns to know him, Will. Listen; you will die many deaths, in your imagination; but always you will live to die others.

Porter (yielding a little to her beguilement): Ah, sweetheart, if only I could have your guidance.

Athol (leads him to chair beside the desk, facing audience; she kneels beside him): You have it, Will—always; you have everything you’ve ever had, and many things you’ve only dreamed. Precious gifts, you have—fancy, and tenderness—and merry words, a shining flood. You will take them into prison with you, and bring them out unharmed; and you will learn new things, new understanding, new pity—and the future will be before you. You will find a way to help people—your own way; to suggest a little kindness to them, a little humor, in the hope that sometime it will become contagious.

Porter: I said those very words in the prison; I am always quoting you.

Athol: Once upon a time you told me about some foolish person in New York who talked about the Four Hundred—those few who really counted. You said you would write about the Four Million—they were the ones who counted.

Porter: I think of that now and then.

Athol: Write about them, Will! Write for them! I see them, eager, hungry, craving just the sort of pity mixed with laughter that is your gift. Yes, I see them! Will! Will—look at them! (she points; a searchlight behind the scenes is suddenly turned upon the audience through an aperture in the back drop; it plays here and there, and Athol’s voice rises with excitement) Faces! Faces! Millions of faces—and all of them your lovers! Eager faces, shining, with gratitude, with hope, with fun—all of them ready to cheer you, to shout to you—to tell the affection they bear you! Go forth, Will Porter! Do your work, and take your place as their story teller—the voice of the Four Million!

(Dulcie enters at right; the little shop-girl, clad in pitiful imitation finery; frail, emaciated, hungry in body and soul; she carries a wreath of laurel)

Porter: Who are you?

Dulcie: I am Dulcie, the little shop-girl. Mine is the Unfinished Story, which you will finish. I have never had a true friend—not among men; but you are my friend. (she puts the wreath upon his head) Rise, O. Henry, the little shop-girl’s knight! (he rises, and she steps back a foot or two, and recites)

He comes with vaudeville, with stare and leer.

He comes with megaphone and specious cheer.
His troupe, too fat or short or long or lean,
Step from the pages of the magazine
With slapstick or sombrero or with cane:
The rube, the cowboy or the masher vain.
They overact each part. But at the height
Of banter and of canter and delight

The masks fall off for one queer instant there

And show real faces: faces full of care

And desperate longing: love that’s hot or cold;

And subtle thoughts, and countenances bold....

And be it said, mid these his pranks so odd

With something nigh to chivalry he trod.

And oft the drear and driven would defend—

The little shop-girls’ knight unto the end.

MAMMONART

An Essay in Economic Interpretation

“Mammonart” studies the artists from a point of view entirely new; asking how they get their living, and what they do for it; turning their pockets inside out, seeing what is in them and where it comes from.

“Mammonart” puts to painters, sculptors, poets, novelists, dramatists and composers the question already put to priests and preachers, editors and journalists, college presidents and professors, school superintendents and teachers: WHO OWNS YOU, AND WHY?

“Mammonart” examines art and literature as instruments of propaganda and repression, employed by ruling classes of the community; or as weapons of attack, employed by new classes rising into power.

“Mammonart” challenges the great ones now honored by critical authority and asks to what extent they are servants of ruling-class prestige and instruments of ruling-class safety.

“Mammonart” asserts that mankind is today under the spell of utterly false conceptions of what art is and should be; of utterly vicious and perverted standards of beauty and dignity in all the arts.

“Mammonart” is a history of culture, and also a battle-cry.

E. HALDEMAN JULIUS telegraphs: “This is real constructive criticism. My heartiest congratulations.”

GEORGE STERLING writes: “You may not know everything, son, but you can sure turn out interesting stuff!”

400 PAGES. CLOTH $2.00; PAPER $1.00

UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, Calif.

The Brass Check

A Study of American Journalism

Who owns the press and why?

When you read your daily paper, are you reading facts or propaganda? And whose propaganda?

Who furnishes the raw material for your thoughts about life? Is it honest material?

No man can ask more important questions than these; and here for the first time the questions are answered in a book.

The first edition of this book, 23,000 copies, was sold out two weeks after publication. Paper could not be obtained for printing, and a carload of brown wrapping paper was used. The printings to date amount to 144,000 copies. The book is being published in Great Britain and colonies, and in translations in Germany, France, Holland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Italy, Hungary and Japan.

Hermann Bessemer, in the “Neues Journal,” Vienna:

“Upton Sinclair deals with names, only with names, with balances, with figures, with documents, a truly stunning, gigantic fact-material. His book is an armored military train which with rushing pistons roars through the jungle of American monster-lies, whistling, roaring, shooting, chopping off with Berserker rage the obscene heads of these evils. A breath-taking, clutching, frightful book.”

From the pastor of the Community Church, New York:

“I am writing to thank you for sending me a copy of your new book, ‘The Brass Check.’ Although it arrived only a few days ago, I have already read it through, every word, and have loaned it to one of my colleagues for reading. The book is tremendous. I have never read a more strongly consistent argument or one so formidably buttressed by facts. You have proved your case to the handle. I again take satisfaction in saluting you not only as a great novelist, but as the ablest pamphleteer in America today. I am already passing around the word in my church and taking orders for the book.”—John Haynes Holmes.

440 pages. Cloth-bound, $1.50; paper-bound, $1

UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, Calif.

THE GOSLINGS
A Study of American Schools
By Upton Sinclair

Who owns the schools, and why?

Are your children getting education, or propaganda? And whose propaganda?

No man can ask more important questions than these; and here for the first time the questions are answered in a book.

H. L. MENCKEN on “The Goslings”: “I’d be recreant to my vows at ordination if I did not commend his volume unqualifiedly as excellent reading. It is, in fact, one of the most interesting books I have got through for months. It presents a vast mass of scandalous and amusing facts, it sorts them out very deftly, and it is very well written. Why he has had to publish it himself I can’t make out. Are all the regular publishers idiots?”

The Los Angeles “Times” on “The Goslings”: “As to the truth of the charges, we have only the author’s word for it.... One would think that if one-half of the charges are true something should be done about it; on the other hand, if they are not true, something should be done to suppress the book.”

From Floyd Dell: “Written with a magnificent and tragic candor.”

“The Goslings,” 464 pages; cloth $2, paper $1

UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, California

THE GOOSE-STEP
A Study of American Education
By Upton Sinclair

Who owns the colleges, and why?

Are your sons and daughters getting education, or propaganda?

And whose propaganda?

No man can ask more important questions than these; and here for the first time the questions are answered in a book.

From H. L. MENCKEN:

“‘The Goose-Step’ came in at last yesterday afternoon, and I fell on it last night. My very sincere congratulations. I have read on and on with constant joy in the adept marshalling of facts, the shrewd presentation of personalities, the lively and incessant humor. It is not only a fine piece of writing; it is also a sound piece of research. It presents a devastating, but, I believe, thoroughly fair and accurate picture of the American universities today. The faults of ‘The Brass Check’ and ‘The Profits of Religion’ are not in it. It is enormously more judicial and convincing than either of those books. You are here complaining of nothing. You simply offer the bald and horrible facts—but with liveliness, shrewdness, good humor. An appalling picture of a moral and mental debasement! Let every American read it and ponder it!”

A few questions considered in “The Goose-Step”: Do you know the extent to which the interlocking directors of railroads and steel and oil and coal and credit in the United States are also the interlocking trustees of American “higher” education? Do you think that our colleges and universities should be modeled on the lines of our government, or on the lines of our department-stores? Do you know that eighty-five per cent of college and university professors are dissatisfied with being managed by floor-walkers? Do you know for how many different actions and opinions a professor may lose his job? Do you know how many professors have to do their own laundry? Do you know why American college presidents with few exceptions are men who do not tell the truth? Do you know to what extent “social position” takes precedence over scholarship in American academic life?

A few of the institutions dealt with:

The University of the House of Morgan; The University of Lee-Higginson; The University of U. G. I.; The Tiger’s Lair; The Bull-dog’s Den; The University of the Black Hand; The University of the Lumber Trust; The University of the Chimes; The Universities of the Anaconda; The University of the Latter Day Saints; The Mining Camp University.

500 pages, cloth $2.00, paper $1.00, postpaid.

UPTON SINCLAIR, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA

Transcriber’s Notes

Itemized changes from the original text:

- Front matter: Added period to match other entries in list (Act. IV)

- p. 3: Removed period from “Al. Jennings”

- p. 9: Replaced “Misth” with “Misteh” (Ah wants you to know, Misteh Porter)

- p. 14: Replaced “offstage” with “off-stage” (a voice calling, off-stage right)

- p. 15: Supplied missing opening parenthesis (Uncle Caesar looks about...)

- p. 16: Replaced “steal” with “steals”

- p. 19: Replaced “galliptious” with “galluptious”

- p. 19: Replaced “silk velvet” with “silk-velvet” (silk-velvet Kentucky Bourbon)

- p. 30: Removed period from end of stage direction (...fires a shot)

- p. 33: Replaced “red hot” with “red-hot” (I’ll mix them red-hot)

- p. 36: Replaced “lemon-peel” with “lemon peel” (lemon peel on the cocktail of creation)

- p. 40: Substituted em-dash for unclear punctuation in printed text (...teach someone else that trick—)

- p. 41: Replaced “ma’m” with “ma’am” (forty-five years, ma’am)

- p. 45: Added colon to match format (sings:)

- p. 46: Replaced “Well-Fargo” with “Wells-Fargo”

- p. 46: Added period after “del amor” to match other occurrences

- p. 47: Added italics to stage direction

- p. 48: Removed duplicated word “guards” (“prison guards enter”)

- p. 52: Replaced “body servant” with “body-servant” (I was goin be yo body-servant)

- p.53: Removed duplicated word “in” (“had in that suit-case”)

- p.55: Replaced “scuteheon” with “scutcheon” (haven’t kept the scutcheon very clear)

Some other inconsistencies in the original text, including inconsistencies in hyphenation, punctuation in contractions, and variations in spelling in dialect passages, were not corrected.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BILL PORTER ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- BILL PORTER

- FOREWORD

- ACT I.

- ACT II.

- ACT III.

- ACT IV.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE