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 amnota 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 SherwoodForest. 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 merelyone 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 SydneyPorter, 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 theysent 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 dogchained 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 ashot)
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 themred-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)