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.
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