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.
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