ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE.
THE
AMATEUR
DRAMA.
LITTLE
BROWN JUG
BOSTON:
GEO. M. BAKER & CO.
149 Washington Street.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873 by
GEORGE M. BAKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington.
LITTLE BROWN JUG
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“Sylvia’s Soldier;” “Once on a Time;” “Down by the Sea;” “Bread on the
Waters;” “The Last Loaf;” “Stand by the Flag;” “The Tempter;” “A Drop Too
Much;” “We’re All Teetotallers;” “A Little More Cider;” “Thirty Minutes
for Refreshments;” “Wanted, a Male Cook;” “A Sea of Troubles;” “Freedom
of the Press;” “A Close Shave;” “The Great Elixir;” “The Man with the
Demijohn;” “New Brooms Sweep Clean;” “Humors of the Strike;” “My Uncle
the Captain;” “The Greatest Plague in Life;” “No Cure, No Pay;” “The
Grecian Bend;” “The War of the Roses;” “Lightheart’s Pilgrimage;” “The
Sculptor’s Triumph;” “Too Late for the Train;” “Snow-Bound;” “The Peddler
of Very Nice;” “Bonbons;” “Capuletta;” “An Original Idea;” &c.
BOSTON:
GEO. M. BAKER & CO.
149 WASHINGTON STREET.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY GEORGE M. BAKER,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,
19 Spring Lane.
THE LITTLE BROWN JUG
A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS.
CHARACTERS.
JOHN NUTTER, a Shoemaker.
WILL NUTTER, his Son.
NED HARTSHORN, his Apprentice.
HENRY DOUGLAS, a Spendthrift.
JARIUS JORDAN, a Yankee Speculator.
HANNAH NUTTER, John’s Wife.
MARY NUTTER, John’s Daughter.
SALLY PEESLEE, Yankee Help.
COSTUMES.
JOHN. Act 1, Bald, gray wig, gray side whiskers, dark pants, colored
shirt, sleeves rolled up, leather apron. Act 2, Drab clothes, calico
dressing gown. Act 3, same as Act 2.
WILL. Act 1, Dark pants, colored shirt, sleeves rolled up, leather apron,
short coat to put on. Act 2, Rusty velvet coat, flaming necktie, dark
pants and vest, gold chain, jockey cap, all soiled and worn. Act 3, Neat
and tasty dress.
NED. Act 1, About the same as Will’s. Act 2, Dark pants, white shirt,
with black tie, dressing-gown. Act 3, Neat business suit.
DOUGLAS. Fashionable dress for each act. Liberal display of jewelry.
Kids, hat, and cane.
JARIUS. Act 1, Rusty dark pants, very short, swallow-tailed blue coat,
long red hair, shocking bad hat, unblacked boots. Act 2 and 3, Good
business suits and hats, neatly arranged hair, polished boots, dress not
dandified, but neat and substantial.
HANNAH. Act 1 and 2, Plain calico dresses. Act 3, white dress.
MARY. Act 1, Red or brown dress, white collar, neat apron, sleeves rolled
up. Act 2, Figured muslin. Act 3, White.
SALLY. Act 1, Calico dress, white collar and cuffs, bonnet or hat. Acts 2
and 3, Neat calico or muslin.
ACT 1.
_SCENE.--NUTTER’S Shop. Door, C., open, L. of door, against flat,
shoemaker’s bench, on which sits NUTTER, at work. Bench, R., on
which NED HARTSHORN is at work. Bench, L., on which WILL NUTTER
is at work. JARIUS JORDAN seated on a block, R. C., with his hat
on, whittling, with a stick and large jack-knife._
_John._ Wal, neow, Jarius, depend upon it, there’s nothin’ like a stiddy,
in-door-work life to give a man position in the world. Yeou city fellers
may do all the schemin’ yeou like; but when the time comes for action,
it’s the farmers and the shoemakers that find the bone and sinew to keep
the world a joggin’, whether in provisions or politics. You peddle, and
we provide; you scheme, and we vote. My grandsir was a shoemaker, so was
my daddy, so am I, and I mean that my boy Will, there, shall foller in
the footsteps of his father. P’raps ’tain’t what you might call a high
calling; but boots and shoes, taps and patches, are always wanted, and
will be jest as long as gineration succeeds gineration; and when you’ve
got a trade like mine, p’raps you can’t hoard up much money, but you’ve
got a sure hold on the staff of life.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so, John, jes’ so; that’s mighty good argifying, if a
feller critter hain’t got no soul above peggin’ souls. But that air Will
of yourn has got the city fever the wust kind. He’s hankering for a
chance to try his fortune among the money-catchers. Consarn it, give the
boy a chance. There’s no hay-seed in his hair.
_Will._ That’s right, Jarius; peg away. I never shall take kindly to this
work. Hammer and sew, patch and peg. Bah! I’m tired of it! It’s so awful
slow! I want to see the world, rub elbows with bustling fellows, set my
wits at work, use my tongue, wrestle with sharp ones for the best end of
a bargain. That’s life!
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. You’re a lively young colt--you are. It’s a shame you
can’t have a prance in the city.
_John._ Yes; you’re a pretty chap to set a lad’s head a whizzing--you
are, Jarius Jordan. You’ve been everything by turn, and nothing long.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so, John, jes so. But I calkilate that with every turn
I’ve give myself a h’ist in the world, anyhow. I’ve peddled tin ware,
wooden ware, hardware, everywhere. I’ve swapped horses, traded in cattle,
druv hogs, and raised poultry. I’ve invented cotton gins, reapers, and
mowers, cider presses and match safes, travelled with pictures, poetry
books, stationery, and Bibles. I’ve dug gold, mined copper, and bored
ile; fit Ingins, Mexicans, and sesesh; kept school, led a choir, taught
singing-school, been a deacon in regular standing. I’ve been a printer,
a book-binder, a counter-jumper, and an insurance agent, and other
things too numerous to mention. There’s three things I never took a hand
in--swearin’, lyin’, and drinkin’. I’ve got a clean conscience and a
bank-book full of figgers. I despise meanness, hate misers, and am down
on rascality like all possessed. So, you see, John, with all my rolling,
I’ve gathered _some_ moss, and am none the wuss for it.
_Will._ No, indeed. There’s not a better fellow living than Jarius Jordan.
_Jarius._ O, git eout! Don’t yeou go to tootin’ the horn.
_Ned._ It’s the truth. ’Twould have been a hard winter for widow Black,
but for the kind care Jarius Jordan bestowed upon her.
_Jarius._ Sho! Don’t you tell tales out of school, young feller.
_Will._ Then there’s old Pearson. Who’d have kept him out of the
poorhouse, when he broke his leg, if Jarius Jordan hadn’t stepped in,
housed him all winter, and paid the doctor’s bill?
_Jarius._ O, go along! D’ye want to spile my complexion? Now, John, you
just give Will a chance. You’ll never regret it.
_John._ I tell you, what’s good enough for the old man is good enough for
the boy. I’ll never give my consent to his going into the city--never.
I’m not going to send my boy into that sink of iniquity, to be overcome
by temptation. So you jest shut up, Jarius. I’ve got an awful temper, and
if you rile me, I won’t answer for the consequences.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. But, speaking of temptations--
_Enter HANNAH, L., with a small brown jug._
_Hannah._ Here, father, here’s your “’leven o’clock.”
_John._ (_Dropping his work, and taking the jug._) Ah, that’s good.
_Hannah._ Why, law sakes, Mr. Jerden![1] How do you do? The sight of
you’s good for sore eyes.
[1] Hannah and Sally should follow this pronunciation.
_Jarius._ Thank you, marm. I’m pretty well, considerin’. Hope you’re
hearty.
_Hannah._ Me? Sakes alive! I never had an ache or a pain in my life, and
I’m goin’ on for sixty. There’s nothin’ like good, wholesome work to keep
off sickness.
_Jarius._ Jes so, Mrs. Nutter.
“Rubbin’ and scrubbin’
Gives rust a drubbin’.”
_John._ (_After a long pull at the jug._) Ah, that’s good! The raal
Holland, sweetened to taste, and rousing hot! Take a pull, Jarius?
_Jarius._ No, I thank ye.
_John._ (_Takes a drink._) Ah! Here, Will. (_Passes jug to WILL, who
grasps it eagerly, and drinks._)
_Jarius._ Sho! _Yeou_ ain’t a going to drink that stuff!
_Will._ Stuff? Hullo!
_John._ Stuff? Hear the critter!
_Hannah._ Stuff, indeed! When I mixed it myself, and in the little brown
jug, that’s been in the family years and years!
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. The jug is a relic?
_Hannah._ Yes, indeed; and we wouldn’t part with it for the world. It’s
been handed down from father to son ever since the first Nutter landed in
America.
_John._ And used year in and year out. It’s seasoned with the good grog
of five generations.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Seen some tight times, I reckon. Come, Ned, it’s your
turn.
_Ned._ No, I thank you. I never drink.
_Will._ (_Drinks._) No? I stand his watch.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. So Ned don’t like it, hey?
_Ned._ Ned never tasted it, Mr. Jordan. My poor mother’s last request was
that I should never touch it. Don’t you think a mother’s last request
should be sacred?
_Jarius._ Don’t I? As sacred as the family Bible.
_Ned._ As sacred as the memory of the loved and lost. I had a good
mother, Mr. Jordan.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. You show it.
_Hannah._ Yes, indeed; a poor, hard-working woman was Marcy Hartshorn:
the best washer and ironer in the place; and such a cook! Her pies would
make your mouth water. And turnovers! the young ones would cry for them.
O, dear! such a pity she threw herself away on that drunken sot--Jim
Hartshorn. Why, when he died--
_John._ Hush, mother, hush!
_Hannah._ Dear me! I forgot. But it always makes me mad when I
think--(_sniffs_). Bless me! What’s that? (_Sniffs._) I smell something.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so--gin and sugar.
_Hannah._ It’s my pies a-burning, as sure as I live! And I here
gossiping. O, dear! there’s a whole ovenful spoiled by my neglect!
(_Exit, L._)
_John._ Don’t mind her, Ned. She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. She’d
do anything in the world for you.
_Ned._ I know she would. Heaven bless her! You see, Mr. Jordan, liquor
has left a stain on my family name; and I’m not likely to be friendly
with it.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Stick to the last request, young feller, and you’ll
wipe it out. And if ever you want a friend, don’t forget the undersigned,
Jarius Jordan, for you’ll find him on hand, like a picked-up dinner.
_John._ There; that job’s done. Here, Will, drop that jug. It’s a leetle
strong to-day. Put on your coat, and take these shoes to Mrs. Douglas.
_Will._ (_Rises while speaking, takes off apron, puts on coat and hat,
sets the jug on the floor beside JOHN NUTTER’S bench._) That’s just
the job for me. Hen Douglas sent me word he wanted to see me. So I can
kill two birds with one stone. (_Takes shoes._) The Holland is a leetle
strong, and no mistake. (_Exit, C._)
_Jarius._ See here, John Nutter, I’m a b’ilin’ and a b’ilin’, an’ if I
don’t let off steam, there’ll be a case of spontaneous combustion in my
in’ards. You’re a good deal older than I am; but we’ve been good friends
ever since I was knee high to a woodchuck; so, hear me fust, and lick me
arterwards, if you don’t like it. Here you’ve been a talking about the
temptations of the city, and putting that inter your boy’s mouth that
will work his etarnal destruction! Your little brown jug will be his evil
genius. Mind what I say. He hankers arter it now; and you, here in the
country, are tempting him, and making an appetite that’ll eat him up soul
and body. And now he’s off to meet that air Douglas, who always has a
bottle at his elbow. He’s a dangerous chap.
_John._ Much you know about it. He’s Will’s friend. He’s taken a shine to
him, and, if I’d say the word, would give him a great lift in the city.
He’s a well-meaning chap, that Douglas. He’s got a rich father, and need
not work. He’s well edicated, and has got good manners. Will’s all the
better for being in company with such a man. As for the little brown jug,
don’t abuse that. It never did me any harm, and I was as young as Will
when I took my first pull at it. So, don’t you meddle, Jarius. When I
find things going wrong in my family, I’ll take ’em in hand myself.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Look here, John. I’ve taken a fancy to that boy
myself. Give me his time, and I’ll put in your hand, to-day, five hundred
dollars, and guarantee you a thousand more, if I don’t make a man of him
when he’s twenty-one.
_John._ (_Rising._) You can’t have him. I’ve just had enough of your
meddling. If I wanted him to go, I’d make terms with Mr. Douglas, and
not you. He shall never go with my leave; and he knows that if he goes
without, he never returns here. You’re pretty flush with your money,
Jarius, but you haven’t enough to buy that boy’s time, nor logic enough,
sharp as you think yourself, to turn my purpose. (_Exit, L._)
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Stubborn as a mule. Douglas will get that boy in spite
of thunder. I do hate to see that young feller go to the dogs; as he’s
sure to do if something don’t hinder. He’s jest the chap to go into
Stinson’s good graces, and gain a complete knowledge of agricultural
implements in his concern, and jest the lad to keep a sharp eye on my
interest in the patent reaper. I do hate to get eucred; but old Nutter’s
a hard lot when he gets his back up.
_Enter SALLY, C._
_Sally._ Goodness gracious! If I’ve been here once, I’ve been here twenty
times for Mrs. Douglas’s shoes, and she ravin’ distracted about ’em! Such
a dawdlin’ set as you shoemakers are!--Sakes, Mr. Jerden, heow dew yeou
dew? I didn’t see yeou before.
_Jarius._ (_On her entrance puts up his knife, takes off his hat, and
tries to smooth his hair, and appears very sheepish and awkward while she
remains._) Jes’ so, Miss Higgins; business first, and pleasure arterwards.
_Ned._ Don’t fret about the shoes, Sally. Will has just taken them to the
house.
_Sally._ Well, thank goodness, that’s settled.
_Jarius._ Heow’s yeour marm, Miss Peeslee?
_Sally._ Rather peaked, Mr. Jerden; and jest when I ought to be at
home, I’m kept at the big house and worked like a dog. Such a set of
cross-grained folks you never did see. Old Mr. Douglas as proud and
stiff as a grannydear, Mrs. Douglas frettin’ and worryin’ the livelong
day about nothin’, and that good-for-nothin’ Hen of theirs a carryin’ on
all sorts of didos. He and the old gentleman had an awful quarrel this
mornin’. Somehow Mr. Douglas got it into his head that Hen was sparking
Mary Nutter in airnest. Don’t believe such a notion ever entered the
feller’s head afore. He’s only flirtin’ with her, same as he has with
twenty other girls; but, to spite the old man, he swore--O, awful!--he’d
marry her, if he was turned out of doors for it.
_Ned._ He marry our Mary!
_Sally._ Why not? He’s none too good for her.
_Ned._ She’s too good for him.
_Sally._ Why, Ned, you ain’t sweet on her--are you?
_Ned._ Me? I should not dare. But he’s a worthless spendthrift, thinks
only of his own pleasure, regardless of others’ feelings, selfish,
dissipated, cunning, and crafty. He marry Mary! Heaven forbid!
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. He cuts a mighty big swell on an awful small capital.
_Sally._ He’s good looking, and that goes a long way with girls. I don’t
think Mary would break her heart if she knew she was to be his wife.
_Ned._ No; but, once in his possession, he would break it. Many whispers
of his wild life in the city have been blown to our ears.
_Sally._ He’s a communion merchant--ain’t he?
_Ned._ A commission merchant, Sally.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. I’ve heard of him. He’s got a shingle, a desk, and a
chair. The shingle hangs at the door; he sits in the chair and watches
his legs on the desk, through tobacco smoke; and that’s the extent of his
business.
_Sally._ He wants to take Will Nutter off there, to learn the business.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. And, with the edication he’s receiving here, he’ll
make a capital assistant in the smoking department.
_Sally._ Land sakes! I can’t stop here spinning shop yarn. Good by.
Nothing new--is there? I haven’t been out of the house for a week.
_Jarius._ Nothing special, Miss Peeslee. Harris has lost the suit and the
cow.
_Sally._ I want to know!
_Jarius._ Mrs. Prime as buried her husband last week; has gone to Jarsey
to modify her grief.
_Sally._ Poor Mrs. Prime! How I pity her!
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. She lost a prime husband, that’s a fact. He was the
best feller on a fishing frolic you ever see. Parson Lucas has resigned,
and they do say the parish is resigned to his resigning, too. They’ve got
a new bell-rope onto the second parish. Mrs. Jones’s expectations has
turned out a bouncing boy--
_Sally._ What! another?
_Jarius._ That’s what they say. Molly Moses had a candy scrape last
night, and Si Jones went home with his hair full. Bunsen has got a new
lot of calicoes--prime ones, fast colors. And Joe Britton has killed his
hog. But there’s no news.
_Sally._ No weddin’, no nothin’? I don’t hear anythin’ about your
marriage, Mr. Jerden.
_Jarius._ Don’t you? Well, that’s queer. I ben about it every time I come
home. But it’s all talk and no cider. No, Miss Peeslee, I’m an unplucked
apple on the tree of life. But, to return the compliment, I don’t hear
nothin’ ’bout your gittin’ spliced.
_Sally._ Me? I guess not. It’s time enough to think about that when
mother is able to take care of herself. I won’t say I haven’t had a
chance, Mr. Jerden; but my first duty is to her; and I mean to work my
fingers to the bone, if need be, that the old home may shelter her as
long as she lives.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. So you gave Si Slocum the mitten?
_Sally._ Yes, I did,--the worthless scamp!
_Jarius._ Then Deacon Sassafras wanted you to take the place of his late
departed--didn’t he?
_Sally._ He wanted a drudge, the mean old skinflint!
_Jarius._ Why, he’s rich--the deacon is.
_Sally._ But awful mean. I don’t see how they trust him up behind the
singing-seats with the contribution box Sundays. I wouldn’t.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Josh Higgins was kinder smitten one time--hey, Miss
Peeslee.
_Sally._ Well, p’raps he was, and p’raps he wasn’t. He was too much
smitten with whiskey for me.
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Well, Sally--Miss Peeslee--you’re a smart gal; and if
I want so pesky busy with my new reaper--I’d--I’d--
_Sally._ Well, what would you do, Mr. Jerden?
_Jarius._ I’d jest look round and pick out a smart husband for you.
_Sally._ You needn’t trouble yourself, Mr. Jerden. I can pick for
myself when I git ready. Better be lookin’ out for yourself. You do
want slicking up, and a wife would soon reduce that crop of hair to its
proper dimensions, mend that hole in your elbow, iron out that ruffled,
seedy-looking hat, and find a blacking-brush for those rusty boots. If I
wasn’t so busy, Jarius--Mr. Jerden--I’d look round and find you a wife,
for you do need one awfully. (_Exit, C._)
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Neow there’s a gal I’ve been hankerin’ arter for five
years, and never so much as dared ask her to lecter or singin’-school.
Consarn it, Jarius, you’re a mealy-mouthed critter among the gals, smart
as you are at tradin’ and swappin’. It’s no sorter use; the minute that
gal comes a-near me, there’s a sinkin’ at my stomach that no end of
vittles can’t fill up. Smart? Why, she beats all nater; and I kinder
think she likes me, and gin those chaps the go-by on my account. Come,
come, Jarius, spunk up! Don’t be a fool! Say the word, and she’s yourn
for better or for wus. I’ll put arter her, and spit it out to once.
(_Goes to door, C._)
_Enter SALLY, C._
_Sally._ Here, Ned; I forgot to pay for the boots. (_Gives money._)
_Ned._ One dollar. All right. Thank you, Sally.
_Sally._ Was you going my way, Mr. Jerden?
_Jarius._ Yes--no--no. I was going to see Joe Bristles’ hog.
_Sally._ O, yes. “Birds of a feather,” you know. (_Exit, C. to R._)
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Consarn it, Jarius, you are a hog, and no mistake.
(_Exit, C. to L._)
_Ned._ Hen Douglas marry Mary Nutter! O, Heaven forbid! What a dear good
girl she is! The sound of her voice, as she merrily sings at her work,
sets my hammer flying glibly, and my heart beating quickly, too. ’Twill
be called a good match, for he has money, and she is the most capable
girl in the place. She would grace the handsomest house that his money
could furnish. But could he make her happy? He, with his foppish airs,
his love of display, delight in reckless dissipation! No, no. He would
tire of her in a week, and then, with some new fancy luring him, turn
coldly from her, perhaps abuse her, and break her heart. Break her heart!
O, Mary, Mary! For the first time in my life I long for wealth, for then
I should have the power to enter the field, and, if I could not win you
for myself, at least save you from a heartless man.
_Mary._ (_Outside, L., sings._)
“Come, arouse thee, arouse thee,
My merry Swiss maid;
Take thy _pail_, and to labor away.”
_Enter, L., with pail._
Ah, Ned, all alone, and still at work? The old adage will never do for
you--“When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
_Ned._ No, indeed, Mary. I like work too well to slight it when the
master’s eye is not upon me. It’s such a jolly companion! With every peg
I drive away poverty; with every punch of my awl I see success; with
every pull of the threads I gain a long pull and a strong pull up the
ladder of life. O, work is a man’s best friend, and when he turns his
back upon that, he richly deserves what he is sure to get--a gloomy life
and a nameless grave.
_Mary._ Well done, Ned!
“With bench for horse, and awl for lance,
Through stubborn leather you gayly prance;
Shouting your war-cry, with cheery ring,
‘Make way, make way for the shoemaker king!’”
_Ned._ Mary, Mary, don’t laugh at me!
_Mary._ Laugh at you? No, indeed; not I. You were philosophical, so I, to
keep you company, became poetical. But you’re right, Ned, as you always
are. Work has been your best friend, for it has enabled all of us to find
in you its best companion--merit.
_Ned._ Ah! thank you, Mary. If you only knew how proud I feel to hear you
praise me!
_Mary._ If I did? Why, then, I suppose I should feel it my duty to be
silent. So don’t let me know it. Good by.
_Ned._ Where are you going?
_Mary._ To the well for water.
_Ned._ No; I’ll go for you. (_Jumping up._) Give me the pail.
_Mary._ Thank you. (_Gives pail. NED goes to door._) I say, Ned, ain’t
you afraid to leave your awl behind?
_Ned._ (_At door._) Mary, you’re laughing at me.--(_Aside._) She little
knows I leave my _all_--my heart--behind. (_Exit, L._)
_Mary._ (_Sits on bench._) Dear fellow! What a shame his father turned
out so bad! And no mother to care for him! (_Takes up lapstone and
strap._) I wonder what kind of a shoemaker I should make! (_Takes awl._)
Dear me, I’ve pricked my finger! Where’s the hammer? O, here it is. I
don’t believe it’s very hard work to mend a shoe. As he is doing my work,
I should be doing his. I wonder where he left off!
_Enter DOUGLAS, C._
_Douglas._ Beautiful, beautiful!
“She had a hammer in her hand,
The day when first we met.”
_Mary._ (_Jumping up._) Mr. Douglas!
_Douglas._ Ah, Mary, I’ve caught you cobbling.
_Mary._ No, you haven’t, for I hadn’t commenced.
_Douglas._ So, so, the pretty Mary has turned cobbler!
_Mary._ The pretty Mary has done nothing of the kind. She was only
amusing herself while waiting--
_Douglas._ For me--her adorer, who languishes in her absence, and whose
heart beats with rapture at sight of her beautiful face.
_Mary._ Don’t, Henry, be so sentimental. You know I don’t like it. Why
not say, plain and plump, “I’m glad to see you!” instead of all that
palaver about languish and heart-beats? You know I don’t like it.
_Douglas._ O, you don’t? Then hereafter this rapturous--
_Mary._ Henry!
_Douglas._ Mary, I’ve done. But what in the world were you doing on that
dirty bench?
_Mary._ Well, I never! Dirty, indeed! Sit down there at once!
_Douglas._ What! I? You’re joking.
_Mary._ Very well, if you don’t choose to obey me, I’m off to my work.
(_Going, L._)
_Douglas._ O, very well, if you mean it. (_Sits on bench._)
_Mary._ Now, Henry, I’ve made a vow that I will never marry a man who
cannot mend a shoe. I’ve just made it. And if you have any expectation of
making me your wife, the sooner you learn the trade the better.
_Douglas._ Well, that’s a capital joke, and, egad, I’ll humor it. So
here goes. (_Takes up lapstone. Drops it on his toes._) O, murder! I’ve
smashed my toe!
_Mary._ No matter. Try again.
_Douglas._ To smash another? No, I thank you. (_Puts lapstone in lap._)
There, that’s all right. (_Takes up shoe, puts strap over it._) How’s
that?
_Mary._ Beautiful. You were born to be a shoemaker.
_Douglas._ I hope not. (_Takes pegs and hammer._) Now, to drive my first
peg. (_Strikes his fingers. NED appears at doorway with pail._) O,
murder! I’ve smashed my thumb!
_Ned._ Served you right, meddler.
_Douglas._ (_Starts up._) Sir! What’s that?
_Ned._ The truth. You’re meddling with my tools; and if you’re not out of
this place in three seconds, I’ll wallop you.
_Mary._ O, Ned, Ned! it’s all my fault. I set him to work.
_Ned._ O, indeed! That’s quite another matter. But he can’t stay on my
bench.
_Douglas._ If you’re not more civil, _you_ won’t stay on it long. Mind
that, Master Ned.
_Ned._ What d’ye mean?
_Mary._ Now, don’t quarrel. Bring the pail in for me, Ned.--Mr. Douglas,
I’ll give you a lesson another time. (_Exit, L._)
_Ned._ Lesson, indeed! You work with your white hands! Bah, you couldn’t
earn your salt! (_Exit, L._)
_Douglas._ Confound that fellow, he puts on more airs than a nabob! He’s
in the way. Mary is too fond of him; and he, with that jealous glitter in
his eye, too much in love with her for my comfort. He must be got rid of.
Pshaw, Douglas! What chance could a poor journeyman shoemaker have with
the lady of your choice? Rich, accomplished, by no means a bad-looking
fellow, the whole family would be delighted to gain so distinguished a
connection. And she, I know, looks upon me with favor. I have only to
gain the old man’s consent. And that’s an easy matter. Still, I don’t
like the idea of this fellow’s presence. He must be got rid of. But how?
Will! Ah, there’s a ready tool. I want him in the city. There’s a little
sharp practice in which I want a second hand to work; and Will’s the lad.
If I can only get him to pick a quarrel with Ned Hartshorn, bring them to
blows, and thus arouse the old man’s temper, they’ll both be turned out
of doors. Will would be mine, and the other out of the way.
_Will._ (_Outside. Sings._)
“My wife and I live all alone,
In the little brown house we call our own;
She,” &c.
_Enters, C., intoxicated._
Hullo, Hen! How are you, Hen? I’ve been looking for you--I have. Wan’t
at home. But the bottle was. I found it in the old spot, so I drank
your health. “Here’s to Hen Douglas. Hip, hip, hooray!” Hullo, there’s
the little brown jug! I’ll drink your health again. Hip, hip, hooray!
(_Drinks._) I say! what’s the matter with you?
_Douglas._ I have been insulted.
_Will._ Been what? Say that again. Show me the man, woman, or child that
has insulted Hen Douglas,--hip, hip, hooray!--and I’ll--I’ll wipe him
out. Fetch ’em on, one at a time, or all together. I’m the friend of the
oppressed--I am. Feel my muscle! so don’t you be afraid. Say, who’s the
feller or fellerers?
_Douglas._ Fellow, indeed! That miserable whelp, Ned Hartshorn, here in
this place, and in the presence of your sister. But I’ve done with you
all. I’ll not be disgraced by such associates. Good by, Will. You I like,
and if ever you get into trouble, come to me in the city, and I’ll stand
your friend.
_Will._ Say! hold on! Let’s settle this thing. You shall have
satisfaction. If Ned Hartshorn has dared to insult my friend,--my friend,
Hen Douglas; hip, hip, hooray!--I’ll trounce him. Now you just wait and
see me do it. Going to the city? All right. I’ll go with you, spite of
the old man.
_Douglas._ No, no, don’t pick a quarrel on my account. Perhaps he didn’t
mean to insult me. Perhaps he was blinded by his love for your sister.
_Will._ What? Ned Hartshorn in love with my sister! I’ll trounce him for
that. Now you see me do it. Insult my friend, and in love with my sister!
O, I’ll fix him!
_Douglas._ Hush! Here he is.
_Enter NED, L._
_Ned._ Ah, Will, back again?
_Will._ Ay, back again, you sneaking thief!
_Ned._ How, Will? You forget yourself.
_Will._ Indeed! You forgot yourself when you made love to my sister and
insulted my friend, you mean, contemptible sneak!
_Ned._ Will, you’ve been drinking.
_Will._ (_Throws off his coat._) You’re right. I’ve just enough liquid
lightning in my hide to rouse my manhood. You’ve insulted my friend. Beg
his pardon at once.
_Ned._ I shall do nothing of the kind. If he has told you I insulted him,
he must have told you, also, that I made love to your sister; and he’s a
liar.
_Douglas._ Liar? This to me?
_Ned._ Ay, to you. ’Tis you who have turned Will’s head, you who have
tempted him to drink, you who, with a lying tongue, now seek to make us
quarrel. Bah! you’re a coward! You dare not face me yourself; you dare
not ask me to beg your pardon; for, if you did, you know I’d knock you
down quicker than I did when you insulted Patty Moore.
_Will._ But I dare, and mean you shall. So, solemn, pious, temperate Ned
Hartshorn, obey at once!
_Ned._ Will, I’d do anything in reason to oblige _you_. But I can’t do
that.
_Will._ Then I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.
_Ned._ O no, you won’t, Will.
_Will._ I say I will, sneak, coward, son of a drunkard!
_Ned._ Careful, Will, careful!
_Will._ Come on. My blood’s up. If you won’t apologize, you must fight.
_Ned._ Keep off! keep off, I say! You’ll get hurt.
_Will._ Shall I? I’ll risk it. (_They struggle. NED throws WILL across
stage. He falls on bench, L._)
_Douglas._ That won’t do. (_Seizes jug, steps up behind NED, and strikes
him on the head. JARIUS appears in the door, C._)
_Ned._ O, my head, my head! (_Staggers, and falls on bench, R._)
JARIUS. Jes’ so. (_Disappears._)
_Douglas._ (_Runs to WILL, and places the jug in his hand._) Are you
hurt, Will?
_Will._ Hurt? No. Let me come at him. Let me--
_Douglas._ No, no. You have nearly killed him with the jug.
_Will._ The jug?
_Douglas._ Yes; you seized it, and struck him before I could interfere.
_Will._ Did I? Then I’ll give him another.
_Enter JOHN, L._
JOHN. What’s going on here? Fighting? Ned hurt? Who has done this?
_Enter JARIUS, C._
_Jarius._ (_Goes to NED._) The boy’s senseless. Water, water! quick!
(_Enter MARY, L._) Mary, bring water! quick! Ned’s hurt.
_Mary._ Ned hurt? O, mercy! (_Exit, L._)
_John._ Who struck him?
_Douglas._ Will, but quite accidentally. You see, Ned provoked him, and,
quite accidentally--
_Will._ No such thing. Don’t play sneak, Hen. I did it, old man, to
uphold the honor of the family.
_John._ Will Nutter, you’re drunk.
_Will._ Drunk yourself, you old fool. O, I ain’t afraid of you. I’ve
been tied to your leather apron long enough. Now I’m going to see the
world. D’ye hear that, old man? No more pegs for me. You can have
the little brown jug to yourself now. I’ve had a taste of something
better--something stronger. It’s roused the man in me. So I’m off. Good
by.
_Enter MARY, L. with water. She runs to NED, and JARIUS and she
try to revive NED._
_John._ Stop, Will Nutter. If you leave this place now, you can never
return to it.
_Will._ That’s all right--just the sort. Don’t want to see it again. Hope
you’ll live long and prosper, and, when you die, leave a nice little
fortune to yours, truly. Good by.
_Douglas._ Don’t mind him, sir. I’ll take care of him. You see how he is.
Come, Will. (_Drags him to the door, C._)
_Will._ I say, old man, I’m off to fame and fortune.
_John._ Fame and fortune? Disgrace and infamy! Will, I’ll give you one
more chance. Return to your bench, and all shall be forgotten. Leave this
place now, and its doors shall never be opened to you again, though you
were dying on the doorstep. Choose now, and choose quickly.
_Will._ Quick enough. I’m off.
_John._ Then go; and, as you desert me, may you, in turn, be deserted.
May all your plans fail you, your enterprises prove unsuccessful, poverty
and ruin dog your steps, and life be to you a failure and a burden. Away,
and bear with you a father’s bitter, bitter--
_Mary._ (_Running to him, and putting her arms around his neck._) No,
father, don’t say that, don’t say that! Poor boy, his will be a bitter
life without his father’s curse.
TABLEAU.
_WILL in door, C., his left arm raised defiantly. DOUGLAS has
left hand on WILL’S shoulder, his right hand in WILL’S right,
dragging him out. JARIUS bending over NED, R. JOHN, L., with
right hand raised; MARY, with her arms about his neck, looking
into his face. Slow curtain._
ACT SECOND.
_SCENE.--Room in NUTTER’S House. Lounge, R., on which NED is
lying asleep. Small table near lounge, at which MARY is seated,
sewing. Lamp on table. Arm-chair, L. C. Table with plants, R.
corner, back; if scenery is used, window in flat, R. C. Door, C.,
shut. Moonlight through window. SALLY, asleep in arm-chair, L. C._
_Mary._ Poor fellow, he’s asleep at last. What a terrible year it has
been for him! That cruel blow stretched him on a bed of sickness, from
which we feared he never would rise. Only a good constitution and
careful nursing have saved him from death, and saved Will from worse than
death--the stain of murder. O, Will, if you only knew how we have fought
to save you from that, how we have prayed for Ned’s recovery, your heart
might be touched with remorse. Surely Henry Douglas must have told him of
his danger. He says he has. But not a word, not a line comes from him. A
whole year has passed. We have watched and waited. Mother’s once bright
cheek has grown pale. Father, though he says not a word, starts at every
footfall. But yet no sign of his return.
_Sally._ Now, Jarius, if you don’t stop, I’ll scream. Murder, murder!
(_Wakes._) Bless my soul! Have I been dreaming?
_Mary._ Yes, Sally, of Jarius.
_Sally._ It’s no sech thing. Leastwise, dreams go by contraries. I
thought that Jarius Jerden had his arm around my neck, and was going to
kiss me; so I hollered.
_Mary._ As dreams go by contraries, you wouldn’t scream if he really had.
_Sally._ Yes, I would. What do I care for Jarius Jerden? He’s forever
pokin’ his nose in here when he ain’t wanted. I’ll give him a piece of my
mind some day, see if I don’t.
_Mary._ That will be very satisfactory to him, no doubt, when he pops the
important question.
_Sally._ He? Jarius Jerden pop the question? He’ll never do it. He
hain’t the courage. He jest comes here, and sits and whistles, sighs
and whittles, and talks about Squire Jones and his cattle, and sich
nonsense. I’ve no patience with him. If I was a man, I’d just know which
side my bread was buttered on in short order.
_Hannah._ (_Outside, L._) Sally, Sally!
_Sally._ Yes, marm.
_Hannah._ (_Outside, L._) Your bread’s run onto the floor, the fire’s all
out, and the cat’s in the cream.--Scat! scat!
_Sally._ Dear me! What a chapter of accidents! And I here dreaming! O,
these men, these men! (_Exit, L._)
_Mary._ Ah, Sally, ’twill be a happy day for you when Jarius Jordan
musters up courage enough to ask you to be his wife. There’ll be a prompt
answer on your part, I’ll warrant. (_Enter DOUGLAS, C._) And a happy
life, which you so richly deserve, will be the sequel to this queer
wooing. Heigho!
_Douglas._ (_Who has crept up behind her chair._) That sigh was touching,
Mary. Was it meant for me?
_Mary._ (_Starting up._) Mr. Douglas! You here?
_Douglas._ Does that surprise you? Where should I be but in the presence
of her I love--of the angelic being who has promised to be my wife? (_NED
wakes, and, leaning on his elbow, listens._)
_Mary._ That was a great while ago.
_Douglas._ A year only. Surely you have not repented of your promise.
_Mary._ I have.
_Douglas._ Ho, ho! So this is the meaning of the coldness which I have
felt creeping into our intercourse of late--you repent your promise!
_Mary._ Mr. Douglas, listen to me. A year ago I was a giddy girl, proud
to be noticed by one so high in the social sphere as you. Your attentions
to me, while other girls in vain sought to attract you, dazzled me,
caused a fluttering in my silly bosom, which I then thought was love, and
I gave you encouragement; nay, I will confess it, promised to be your
wife. We were very happy here in our family circle then--very. But, alas!
trouble came. You know how. My brother fled; our dear Ned was struck
down; I became his nurse; by night and by day I watched by his couch; and
in those long hours what could I do but think, think, think? I thought of
the wide difference in our social position, how unsuited we were for each
other--you, with your fine talents and rich connections, I, a poor girl,
reared to hard work, with no knowledge of the world outside our little
village; and then I looked into my heart, and somehow, I can’t explain
it, I felt there was no love there; that I never could be happy as your
wife; and so to-night I ask you to release me.
_Douglas._ Well, ’pon my word, here’s a confession! Here’s a fine
position for the heir of the Douglas name and state. After my unremitting
attentions for a year, I am to be thrown aside, like a country bumpkin,
at the whim of a girl who don’t know her own mind! No, no, Mary, I shall
not release you. You’ll think better of it to-morrow.
_Mary._ Yes, better, for my resolve will be stronger.
_Douglas._ And that resolve is--
_Mary._ Never to marry you, Henry Douglas. It is best we have no
misunderstanding now.
_Douglas._ It is, indeed. So, so! While I have been absent, my place has
been taken in your heart by that fool, Ned Hartshorn.
_Mary._ Mr. Douglas!
_Douglas._ Yes; it’s as plain as the sun at noonday. Stunned by a slight
blow, he made that the pretext for a long season of wasting sickness,
that he might secure your attention, that he might bill and coo in your
face, excite your compassion, and awake in your heart an answer to his
love. The hypocrite! With his youth and strength, the blow he received
should not have kept him from his work a day. ’Twas a crafty trick.
_Mary._ Mr. Douglas!
_Douglas._ Ay, a crafty trick. But it shall not succeed. I have your
promise; I have your father’s consent. I will not release you.
_Mary._ Henry Douglas, you have spoken plainly, and you have spoken
falsely. ’Tis true he who lies there loves me. I have read it in his
pleading eyes; I have heard it in the delirium of fever from his lips.
But he is as incapable of the meanness you would ascribe to him as you
are of an honorable thought. Shame, shame! He has worked hard for an
honest name. Poor fellow; ’tis all he has in the world!--and you, rich
and powerful, seek to rob him of that.
_Douglas._ Mary!
_Mary._ Silence! I will not hear you. You have attacked the honor of a
dear friend, dearer for the infirmity which has fallen upon him through
the instrumentality of one of my name. ’Tis but right I should stand
forth in his defence. Hear me. I asked you to release me from my
promise; I gave you the reasons, good, true reasons, which would have
convinced an honorable man. I have one more to give, which must convince
you. I can never be your wife, for your attack has revealed something I
hardly dreamed. I love Ned Hartshorn as I can never love another.
_Douglas._ Ha! The truth at last! There is no misunderstanding now. Your
last reason has convinced me. Now hear one which must overpower yours,
which must convince you that I will not be trifled with. Your brother
Will and I parted company this morning.
_Mary._ Will and you! What mean you?
_Douglas._ Yesterday, being the first of the month, my book was returned
to me from the Phœnix Bank, with the checks which I had drawn during the
month. I say, which I had drawn. I’m wrong. There was one there for two
hundred dollars, signed by a clever imitation of my name, of which I had
no knowledge. It was a forgery.
_Mary._ A forgery! Well?
_Douglas._ Nay, ’twas very bad, for I found, upon investigation, it had
been done by your brother.
_Mary._ Will? No, no; you do not suspect him.
_Douglas._ I know he forged that check. This morning I charged him with
it. Of course he indignantly denied it. I informed him, quietly, that I
had no further need of his services. He took his hat, and departed; and
there the matter rests. Of course I might have called in an officer,
and had him arrested; but, as he was in a fair way to become my
brother-in-law, that would have been injudicious, to say the least.
_Mary._ It would have killed my mother. But Will--where is he now?
_Douglas._ I haven’t the least idea. Of one thing be certain--he will
never trouble you with his presence. His city life has not been a
success. He will not return to boast of it. Besides, should he appear
here, I must arrest him.
_Mary._ You arrest him? No, no; that would be infamous.
_Douglas._ He is a criminal; he has robbed me, and squandered my money.
Why should I pardon him?
_Mary._ Because--because--(_Aside._) O, Heavens, I have lost the power to
plead for him!
_Douglas._ Mary, you _will_ think better of your resolve. You love
your brother; he is in danger. If I but raise my finger, disgrace and
infamy are fastened upon him forever. I would not willingly be the
instrument of justice in this case. I would not rob him of liberty; of
the opportunity to wipe out this disgrace. But you, to-night, propose to
rob me of my happiness; to blight my life by withholding the treasure I
covet--yourself. Think you not, in such a case, revenge is justice?
_Mary._ What would you have me do?
_Douglas._ Fulfil your promise. Become my wife.
_Mary._ Still loving Ned Hartshorn?
_Douglas._ Love that fool! I do not believe it. You are too sensible a
girl, Mary. No, no. When you are my wife, this idle folly will be but a
dream.
_Mary._ Yes, when I am your wife! And if I keep my promise, my brother--
_Douglas._ Shall not be molested. More, I will befriend him, and place
him in a good position.
_Mary._ Indeed! So I am to save my brother at the cost of my love! Henry
Douglas, the trick is worthy of you; but it shall not move me. I love my
brother, Heaven knows; but not even to save him from prison would I marry
one who has suffered at his hands, by consenting to become your wife.
_Douglas._ I have done. Justice must take its course. Nay, I will not
be conquered by so mean a foe. Your father, your father, Mary, he
shall decide whom he will accept as his daughter’s husband,--I, rich,
accomplished, of good family, or that low, gawky clown.
_Mary._ Silence! He is a brave, noble, true man, who would scorn to stoop
to the petty tricks of the rich and accomplished Henry Douglas. Let my
father decide. I care not. Every threat you utter but strengthens my
resolution. Do your worst. From your arms I would fly to his, though I
knew poverty and toil should be our portion.
_Douglas._ As you please. But I shall not release you, Mary Nutter. My
wife you shall, you must be. You’ve a stubborn father and a stubborn
lover to fight. Arm yourself, Mary; you will need all your strength, and
then--I shall win. Good night. (_Exit, C._)
_Mary._ Ah, while there is life there is hope, even in a bad cause.
(_Turns, and sees NED looking at her._) Why, Ned, you awake?
_Ned._ Yes, Mary. I have heard all.
_Mary._ What! No, no, Ned, not all!
_Ned._ Yes, Mary, every word. O, it seems as though a reviving draught
had been poured through my veins, and life, strong, healthy life was
coming back to me. Now I can speak, give utterance to that which you
have discovered, but which I, weak, distrustful, hid in my own bosom.
Now, Mary, I can tell you I love you.
_Mary._ Ned, have I done right to break my promise?
_Ned._ Yes, Mary. You have obeyed the dictates of your heart. Douglas is
unworthy the rich prize he seeks.
_Mary._ Had I known you were listening, Ned, I fear my tongue would have
refused to do its duty.
_Ned._ And you love me?
_Mary._ Yes, Ned, with all my heart.
_Ned._ O, you make me so happy! An hour ago life seemed not worth living
for; but now, with your love to cheer me, all is bright and hopeful. It’s
a glorious world! and never fear but I will find a way to lead you, not
to toil and poverty, not to wealth and luxury, but to a comfortable home,
where the ring of my hammer and the sound of your voice shall blend in
sweet accord.
_Mary._ Why, Ned, what magic’s here? Your eye is bright, your cheek
glowing, your whole manner so unlike you! I’m frightened.
_Ned._ Magic? The magic of a woman’s love, which can transform age to
youth, and make the dull heart beat with healthy power. You smile on me,
and I am strong again.
_Mary._ Now be careful. Remember you are an invalid. Bless me! how late
it is! Come, you must to bed at once. Remember I am your nurse still.
_Ned._ O, I’ll obey. But I shan’t sleep a wink. Mary, are you sure I’m
not dreaming?
_Mary._ There’s my hand. When you ask it, it is yours.
_Ned._ (_Places his arm around her waist, takes her hand and raises it
to his lips._) Mine! heart and hand mine! No; I’m not dreaming. ’Tis a
blessed reality.
_Exeunt, R._
(_Knock at door, C., then it opens, and JARIUS sticks his head
in._)
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. (_Enters._) Nobody to hum, or all gone to roost,
except Sally. That air female I jest seen through the kitchen winder a
slashin’ away in the bread trough like all possessed. She’s a powerful
gal--she is. Her washin’ don’t hang round long arter breakfast, I reckon.
O, Sally, ef yeou only knew what a powerful drubbin’ was goin’ on behind
my ribs on your account, you’d take pity and help a feller out somehow.
Plague take it! She knows it well enough. Didn’t I start right off, a
year ago, on her hint, and git my hair cropped so short that I couldn’t
lay on a piller, and sneezed and snorted, and wore out handkerchers with
the influenza? Didn’t I go and git measured for a new pair of boots,
so tight that I hobbled all day and howled all night with aching toes?
Didn’t I git fitted to a bran new coat, that bust up the back the fust
time I wore it? Ef that ain’t showin’ off one’s love, I’d like to know
it! But it’s no use. She won’t help a feller a bit. She knows every time
I come I’m a burnin’ to ask her to be my wife. But I can’t say it. It
gits jes’ so fur, and there it sticks. Sally, I love you. Four words. I’m
blamed ef they ain’t a bigger load to git rid of than a Fourth er July
oration! But it’s no use. It’s got to come. So, Jarius, don’t be a fool.
Spit it out, and she’s yourn. I will, the minute I see her. I won’t wait
for nothin’, but jest shout, Sally--(_Enter SALLY, L., with her hands
and arms covered with flour._) Sh, sh! How do you do? (_Shakes hands
quickly._)
_Sally._ Law sakes, Mr. Jerden, you’ve caught me this time, sure enough!
I’m up to my elbows in flour. So jest excuse me a minute. (_Going, L._)
_Jarius._ No, hold on a minute, or I shall bust. Now’s the
appointed time, Sally. Sally, I’ve got something particular to
say--Sally--Sally--old Hopkins has got the yaller janders.
_Sally._ Wal, I declare! Is that the particular somethin’? (_Going, L._)
_Jarius._ No, no. Hold on a minute. (_Catches her by the arm; gets flour
on his hands._) ’Tain’t that. (_Aside._) Consarn it, there’s a cold chill
runs up my back, and my face is burnin’ up. (_Wipes his face with his
hands, leaving flour on it._)
_Sally._ Why, Mr. Jerden, what is the matter with you? You’re as pale as
a ghost!
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. O, Sally, hear me. Don’t look at me, but open your
ears. Pally Seeslee,--no, Sally Peeslee,--I--I--I think it’s going to
rain. (_Aside._) I can’t do it.
_Sally._ Wal, what of it?
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. It’ll put an end to the dry spell.
_Sally._ It seems to me that you are having a very dry spell about
somethin’, Mr. Jerden.
_Jarius._ Yes; jes’ so. Ha, ha, ha-h! That’s very good!
_Sally._ I’ll be back before you want me, I guess. (_Going, L._)
_Jarius._ Don’t leave me. Hear me first, for I’m on an awful strain,
and if I once let up I’m a gone coon. Sally, I want to say--I must
say--Sally, I mean to say--how’s your marm?
_Sally._ Why, Mr. Jerden, are you crazy? Mother’s been dead and buried
this six months.
_Jarius._ So she has. It’s no use asking arter her--is it? That wan’t
what I was going to say. To come to the p’int, Sally, to come to the
p’int, I--I--I don’t feel well.
_Sally._ Then you’d better go home, tie up your ears, and get to bed.
It’s my opinion you’ve had a pint too much, Jarius Jerden; and if ever
you show yourself here in that condition again, I’ll drown the pizen out
of yer with a kittle of hot water. Ain’t ye ashamed of yourself, at your
time of life making a fool of yourself in this way, Jarius Jerden? I did
think you had some sense; but you’re nothing but a fool, arter all. Go
home. Don’t stand there staring at me in that way. Go to bed, sleep it
off, and rise in the morning a sadder and a wiser man. O, Jarius, you, of
all men! Wal, I never! (_Exit, L._)
_Jarius._ Jes’ so. Sold again. And she thinks I’m drunk! Never was
drunk in all my life; but if the sensation is anything like bein’ in
love without the power of tellin’ on it, then all I’ve got to say, it’s
an all-fired mean feelin’. Wal, things is gittin’ on backwards mighty
fast, anyhow. I’ve made a darned goose of myself, that’s sartin. Go home
and sleep it off? Yes, I guess not. I’ll just hang round here a little
longer, and if there’s another chance, I’ll make one mouthful of it,
and say, “Sally--” O, consarn it, Jarius, you darsn’t. You’re a mean,
mealy-mouthed critter, and no mistake. (_Exit, C._)
_Enter MARY, R._