_Place, Tim Murphy's saloon. Time, evening._
Men are crowding about the bar, drinking and laughing coarsely.
The wives are huddled together on a long bench at one side of the
room. The children keep close to their mothers, but stretch their
little necks to watch the dancing in the back of the room, where a
group of painted women are tangoing to the wheezy accompaniment of
an old accordion. Over in the corner a man sprawls drunkenly
across a broken-down faro table.
_Dick Long (hammering the bar with his mug and singing)._ Oh, I'm
goin' to hell, and I don't give a damn. I'm goin' to hell. I'm goin'
to--hell.
_Murphy (knocking a board from the crate that holds the new
nickel-in-the-slot gramaphone)._ You're going a damn sight faster than
that, Dickie Bird, but you'll have to speed up a bit to get in on the
concert. The program begins at eight o'clock sharp, like it says on
the card in the window, and everybody gets an invite, but Caruso don't
sing this time.
_First Painted Lady (stopping the dance and coming down beside
Murphy)._ Let 'er go, Murph. Give us "Too Much Mustard." The piano
player down at the Gulch plays that just fine, and a piece about a
girl that didn't want to love him, but he made her do it. That machine
was long on personal history, Murph. I heard them all through three
times. Let 'er go. We're all here.
_First Wife (leaning over and speaking eagerly)._ Mrs. Long won't be
able to come, Murphy, and Old Moll is settin' up with her to-night. I
met Doc as I came across. The young-un died. I don't see no use in
waitin' when we're all here.
_Rosie Phelan (reaching over and pulling Long's sleeve)._ Did you hear
that, Dick? Your kid is dead. Your kid is--d-e-a-d. Do you get me?
_Man at the Bar._ Aw, break it to him gentle. He don't know he is a
father yet. Have a heart.
_Rosie Phelan (disgustedly)._ "Have a heart." Well, what do you think
of that? For a man who guzzles all day you are mighty strong on the
heart-throb slush. "Speak kindly to the erring." Didn't know you had
got religion. Was it you got the revivalist to come up from the Gulch?
_Nell (shifting her wad of gum)._ Well, he was sitting over at
Benton's rather lonesome-like as I came along. I allus follow the
crowd.
_Murphy (hotly)._ And that is what that preacher will have to do if he
makes any converts up here at the mine. I reckon that, with that music
machine, I'm equipped to compete with any preacher that comes larking
around here until kingdom come. He said he'd save me, if he had to
chase me to hell and back, did he? Well, that guy should worry. That
pale chicken-liver chase me to--Pour out the drinks, Bob. It's my
treat.
Bob slops a little whiskey into every glass and mug on the bar and
passes it round. As it comes to the wives they smile, but shake
their heads. Murphy lifts his glass.
_Murphy._ Won't you women drink the minister's health. How about you
females, Bett? Nell? Rosie? Mollie? You girls never turn down free
liquor, do you? Ready? To hell with the minister.
_Barkeeper._ To hell with every denatured female that comes round here
praying for our souls' salvation. I reckon a feller can do what he
damn pleases with his own soul.
_First Lounger (lazily boastful)._ I told my old woman that if I
ketched her or the kids hanging round listening to that mollycoddle
letting off steam, I'd----
_First Wife (spitefully)._ Us women ain't got no call to get religion.
We're too meek already. My man knows that he'll have a wildcat at his
head when he comes in with that O'Grady woman, but it don't do no
good. He ain't afeared o' nothin' short o' the devil. You don't ketch
me joinin' while my old man is alive. You gotta have some protection.
Safety first, I say.
_Second Wife (meekly)._ They say the "Blue Ridge Mountains" is a
mighty tuneful piece. My sister heard it over at Smarty's las'
Thanksgiving. Can you tell whether your pianoler plays that, Murphy?
_Second Painted Lady (patronizingly)._ How would you expect Murphy to
know what is stored in that machine? You pays your money and your
choice is whatever it happens to grind out. If you place your money on
a "Harem" and draws an "Apple Blossom Time in Normandy," you got to
take your medicine. What you waiting for, Murph? My gentleman friend
is coming over from the Pass this evening, and I can't hang around
here all night.
_Rosie (excitedly, turning from the window that looks upon the
street)._ The light is out at Benton's. The minister is coming over
here. Remember and give him hell. Let him turn the other cheek.
_Murphy._ No prayer meeting virgin is going to interfere with my
business.
The door opens and the minister steps inside. Murphy goes over and
greets him with mock politeness.
_Murphy._ Rosie, you are chief usher to-night. Will you find the
minister a seat? Sit over, Nell. There's room enough between you and
Bett for any sky pilot that ever hit the trail. Bob, give the preacher
a drink. He looks sort of fagged. It's hard work saving sinners in
God's Back Yard. I hope this little concert ain't going to interfere
with your meeting, parson.
_Minister (standing at the bar, whiskey glass in hand)._ Not at all,
friend. What is the bill of fare?
_Rosie (coming forward in her low-cut red gown and swinging her full
skirts from side to side)._ For Gawd's sake, why didn't you tell me it
was going to be religious? I'd forgot it was prayer-meetin' night,
Murph. (_She carefully tucks her handkerchief over her bosom in
pretense of modesty._) I'd dressed up more, if I'd remembered.
_Nell (holding out a string of glittering beads)._ Here, take these,
Rosie. These'll cover up some. I ain't takin' an active part, so I
don't mind.
_Rosie (lifting her arms to fasten the beads)._ Not takin' an active
part? You don't know what you're sayin'. I heard of a minister once
who could make hell look so darned nice you wanted to fall for it
right away. Couldn't such a fellah give the heavenly gates a jar?
(_She turns to the minister._) Where d'you want to sit? Up there by
Mollie? Take your choice.
_Old Moll's Daughter (jumping down from her perch at one end of the
bar and walking over brazenly to drop the first nickel in the slot)._
Clear the way, can't you? I'm praying for the "Bunny Hug" and the
minister is backing me. For Gawd's sake, can't you clear the floor? Do
you want the music to be half done before you find your partners? I'll
be obliged to you, parson, if you'll save this dance for me. (_She
pauses a moment, nickel in hand._)
_First Card Player._ I'll stake you ten to one it'll be "The Pullman
Porters on Parade."
_Second Player (doggedly)._ They always play "A Great Big Blue-Eyed
Baby."
_Rosie (shaking her head and singing, hands on hips)._ "My harem, my
harem, my roly, poly harem."
_Nell (with mock sentiment)._ "For it's Apple Blossom Time in
Normandy, in Normandy, in Normandy."
The nickel jangles in the slot. The disk begins to revolve. It
grates and begins its introductory mechanical clinkety-clinkety
clink. A small child wails dismally as the music shivers through
the room.
"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly.
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high.
Hide me, O, my Saviour, hide
Till the storm of life is past.
Safe into the haven guide,
O, receive my soul at last."
Rosie's hands drop from her hips as the song begins. The dancing
impulse passes from her limbs. Even the muscles of her face harden
convulsively.
_Rosie (hysterically)._ Oh, I can't stand that, Murphy. For Gawd's
sake, can't you stop it?
She starts over toward the machine impulsively. Then something
catches her, she pauses and is held a moment while a superstitious
awe makes her eyes again the big roundness of childhood's wonder.
She draws the back of her hand across her forehead in an endeavor
to bring herself out of the daze.
_Rosie (falling sobbing beside the bench)_. "O, receive my soul at
last." Why did you leave your little Rosie? Mother, Oh, mother. I
ain't fit to come to you no more, mother--I ain't fit, I ain't fit.
One of the mothers reaches over and strokes her hair.
_Old Moll's Daughter (opening the door and stepping out into the
lonely street as she laughs madly)._ Old Murphy in cahoots with the
minister. Oh, hell!
The door slams shut. The glasses on the bar jangle harshly. A
snatch of song boldly defiant rings in from the street: "Don't
tell me that you've lost your dog." Murphy walks over and stands
looking at the music box. It is still grinding out the music.
"Other refuge have I none.
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.
Leave, ah, leave me not alone.
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on Thee is staid.
All my help from Thee I bring.
Cover my defenseless head
With the shadow of Thy wing."
The wives are all crying quietly. Rosie and Bett are sobbing with
the wild abandon that such natures know. Tears are falling upon
the idle hands at the card table. The men at the bar are strangely
quiet.
_Man at the Faro Table (lifting himself up on his elbow)._ I ushe
shing--I ushe shing zhat--I ushe shing Jeshus--Jeshus--I ushe
shing--(_He drops his head over on the table and weeps drunkenly._)
_Little Child (pulling at her mother's shoulders and whining
peevishly)._ Who is Jesus, mamma? Do we know Jesus? (_Happily._) Will
he cover my head with a pretty birdie's wing? (_The mother shakes with
sobs and the child speaks more caressingly._) Don't cry, mother. I
like my hat with the posies on it. You can have the feathers, nice,
good mamma. Don't cry.
_Murphy (absently, looking at the minister)._ They sang that at the
funeral. Sally didn't have no call to hide anything. She was that
white and pure. I always felt her slippin'--slippin' away. She worried
so them last days because of the little kid. "Take him back home,
Murph," she kept sayin'. "A little child has got to have some raisin'.
A kid has got to go to Sunday school, Tim, dear, and there ain't never
no meetin's in God's Back Yard."
_Man at the Bar (dejectedly, going over to the door)._ It's all right
for the young-uns, but when a man has got a thirst and is down on his
luck, I don't allow that God is going to help much. You got to get 'em
young, parson, and keep 'em headed straight. It's hell turning back. I
tried it, and I couldn't make it go.
_Minister (gently, as if speaking to someone very near)._ Oh, Jesus,
lover of all these misguided souls, come down to this little room
to-night, for it is dark here, and, Oh, so cold and dreary. Speak to
them, Jesus, as you did to me. Let them see the glory of Thy face.
Will someone pray?
_Murphy (looking across at the loafers and speaking half as an
invitation, half as a command)._ Are you staying, boys?
_One of the Men (doggedly, as they look at one another sheepishly and
no one moves to go)._ Ain't we always stayin' till closin' time?
_Murphy (warmly)._ You sure do, boys. (_He buries his head in his
crossed arms over the music-box._) It's your lead, parson.