=GEO. M. BAKER'S NEW PLAYS.=
=PAST REDEMPTION.= 4 Acts. Price 25 cts.
=COMRADES.= 3 Acts. Price 25 cts.
=TITANIA.= A Fairy Play for Children. 2 Acts. Price 25 cts.
=OUR FOLKS.= 3 Acts. Price 15 cts.
=SANTA CLAUS THE FIRST.= A Christmas Play for Children.
By F. E. Chase. 25 c.
=REBECCA'S TRIUMPH.= For female characters only. Price 25 cts.
[Illustration: THE GLOBE DRAMA
ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
NEVADA;
OR, THE LOST MINE.
BOSTON: GEORGE M. BAKER & CO., No. 47 Franklin Street.
Copyright, 1876, by GEORGE M. BAKER.]
=Spencer's Universal Stage.=
_A Collection of COMEDIES, DRAMAS, and FARCES, adapted to either
Public or Private Performance. Containing a full description of all
the necessary Stage Business._
=PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. ==> No Plays Exchanged.=
1. LOST IN LONDON. A Drama in 3 Acts. 6 male, 4 female
characters.
2. NICHOLAS FLAM. A Comedy in 2 Acts. By J. B. Buckstone. 5
male, 3 female char.
3. THE WELSH GIRL. A Comedy in 1 Act. By Mrs. Planche. 3
male, 2 female char.
4. JOHN WOPPS. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 4 male, 2
female char.
5. THE TURKISH BATH. A Farce in 1 Act. By Montague Williams
and F. C. Burnaud. 6 male, 1 female char.
6. THE TWO PUDDIFOOTS. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3
male, 3 female char.
7. OLD HONESTY. A Comic Drama in 2 Acts. By J. M. Morton. 5
male, 2 female char.
8. TWO GENTLEMEN IN A FIX. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter.
2 male char.
9. SMASHINGTON GOIT. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 5
male, 3 female char.
10. TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE. A Farce in 1 Act. By Lenox
Horne. 4 male, 1 female char.
11. JOHN DOBBS. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 5 male, 2
female char.
12. THE DAUGHTER of the REGIMENT. A Drama in 2 Acts. By
Edward Fitzball, 6 male, 2 female char.
13. AUNT CHARLOTTE'S MAID. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton.
3 male, 3 female char.
14. BROTHER BILL AND ME. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 4
male, 3 female char.
15. DONE ON BOTH SIDES. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3
male, 2 female char.
16. DUNDUCKETTY'S PICNIC. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J.
Williams. 6 male, 3 female char.
17. I'VE WRITTEN TO BROWNE. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J.
Williams. 4 male, 3 female char.
19. MY PRECIOUS BETSY. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 4
male, 4 female char.
20. MY TURN NEXT. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 4
male, 3 female char.
22. THE PHANTOM BREAKFAST. A Farce in 1 Act. By Chas. Selby.
3 male, 2 female char.
23. DANDELION'S DODGES. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams.
4 male, 2 female char.
24. A SLICE OF LUCK. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 4
male, 2 female char.
25. ALWAYS INTENDED. A Comedy in 1 Act. By Horace Wigan. 3
male, 3 female char.
26 A BULL IN A CHINA SHOP. A Comedy in 2 Acts. By Charles
Matthews. 6 male, 4 female char.
27. ANOTHER GLASS. A Drama in 1 Act. By Thomas Morton. 6
male, 3 female char.
28. BOWLED OUT. A Farce in 1 Act. By H. T. Craven. 4 male, 3
female char.
29. COUSIN TOM. A Commedietta in 1 Act. By Geo. Roberts. 3
male, 2 female char.
30. SARAH'S YOUNG MAN. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 3
male, 3 female char.
31. HIT HIM, HE HAS NO FRIENDS. A Farce in 1 Act. By E. Yates
and N. H. Harrington. 7 male, 3 female char.
32. THE CHRISTENING. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. B. Buckstone. 5
male, 6 female char.
33. A RACE FOR A WIDOW. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams.
6 male, 4 female char.
34. YOUR LIFE'S IN DANGER. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton.
3 male, 3 female char.
35. TRUE UNTO DEATH. A Drama in 2 Acts. By J. Sheridan
Knowles. 6 male, 2 female char.
36. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. An Interlude in 1 Act. By W. H.
Murray. 10 male, 1 female char.
37. LOOK AFTER BROWN. A Farce in 1 Act. By George A. Stuart,
M. D. 6 male, 1 female char.
38. MONSEIGNEUR. A Drama in 3 Acts. By Thomas Archer. 15
male, 3 female char.
39. A VERY PLEASANT EVENING. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E.
Suter. 3 male char.
40. BROTHER BEN. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 3
female char.
41. ONLY A CLOD. A Comic Drama in 1 Act. By J. P. Simpson. 4
male, 1 female char.
42. GASPARDO THE GONDOLIER. A Drama in 3 Acts. By George
Almar. 10 male, 2 female char.
43. SUNSHINE THROUGH THE CLOUDS. A Drama in 1 Act. By
Slingsby Lawrence. 3 male, 3 female char.
44. DON'T JUDGE BY APPEARANCES. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M.
Morton. 3 male, 2 female char.
45. NURSEY CHICKWEED. A Farce In 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 4
male, 2 female char.
46. MARY MOO; or, Which shall I Marry? A Farce in 1 Act. By
W. E. Suter. 2 male, 1 female char.
47. EAST LYNNE. A Drama in 5 Acts. 8 male, 7 female char.
48. THE HIDDEN HAND. A Drama in 5 Acts. By Robert Jones. 16
male, 7 female char.
49. SILVERSTONE'S WAGER. A Commedietta in 1 Act. By R. R.
Andrews. 4 male, 3 female char.
50. DORA. A Pastoral Drama in 3 Acts. By Chas. Reade. 5 male,
2 female char.
55. THE WIFE'S SECRET. A Play in 5 Acts. By Geo. W. Lovell.
10 male, 2 female char.
56. THE BABES IN THE WOOD. A Comedy in 3 Acts. By Tom Taylor.
10 male, 3 female char.
57. PUTKINS; Heir to Castles in the Air. A Comic Drama in 1
Act. By W. R. Emerson. 2 male, 2 female char.
58. AN UGLY CUSTOMER. A Farce in 1 Act. By Thomas J.
Williams. 3 male, 2 female char.
59. BLUE AND CHERRY. A Comedy in 1 Act. 3 male, 2 female char.
60. A DOUBTFUL VICTORY. A Comedy in 1 Act. 3 male, 2 female
char.
61. THE SCARLET LETTER. A Drama in 3 Acts. 8 male, 7 female
char.
62. WHICH WILL HAVE HIM? A Vaudeville. 1 male, 2 female char.
63. MADAM IS ABED. A Vaudeville in 1 Act. 2 male, 2 female
char.
64. THE ANONYMOUS KISS. A Vaudeville. 2 male, 2 female char.
65. THE CLEFT STICK. A Comedy in 3 Acts. 5 male, 3 female
char.
66. A SOLDIER, A SAILOR, A TINKER, AND A TAILOR. A Farce in 1
Act. 4 male, 2 female char.
67. GIVE A DOG A BAD NAME. A Farce. 2 male, 2 female char.
68. DAMON AND PYTHIAS. A Farce. 6 male, 4 female char.
69. A HUSBAND TO ORDER. A Serio-comic Drama in 2 Acts. 6
male, 3 female char.
70. PAYABLE ON DEMAND. A Domestic Drama in 2 Acts. 7 male, 1
female char.
_Descriptive Catalogue mailed free on application to_
=Geo. M. Baker & Co., 47 Franklin St., Boston=.
NEVADA;
OR,
THE LOST MINE.
A Drama in Three Acts.
BY
GEORGE M. BAKER,
AUTHOR OF "COMRADES," "BETTER THAN GOLD," "PAST REDEMPTION,"
"REBECCA'S TRIUMPH," "AMONG THE BREAKERS,"
"THE LAST LOAF," "ABOVE THE CLOUDS," "OUR
FOLKS," "MY BROTHER'S KEEPER," ETC.
BOSTON:
GEORGE M. BAKER AND COMPANY.
1882.
COPYRIGHT, 1882,
BY GEORGE M. BAKER.
CHARACTERS.
NEVADA, THE WANDERER.
VERMONT, AN OLD MINER.
TOM CAREW, }
DANDY DICK,} YOUNG MINERS.
SILAS STEELE, MISSIONARY OF HEALTH.
JERDEN, A DETECTIVE.
JUBE, A BLACK MINER.
WIN-KYE, A CHINAMAN.
MOTHER MERTON.
AGNES FAIRLEE.
MOSELLE, A WAIF.
COSTUMES.
NEVADA. Long white hair and beard, gray shirt, dark pants, both
ragged; boots and belt; one leg of pants in boot, the other hanging
in ribbons.
VERMONT. Iron-gray bald wig and beard, gray shirt, overalls tucked
in boots, belt, pistol in hip-pocket, short coat, slouch hat.
TOM. Full black beard, blue shirt, dark pants tucked in long boots,
black necktie, short coat, pistol in hip-pocket, slouch hat worn
jauntily, red handkerchief worn for belt.
DANDY DICK. Light hair and beard, trimmed; blue shirt with red
necktie, dark pants tucked in long boots, dark coat, Derby hat;
dressed neatly as possible.
JERDEN. Full beard, mixed suit, pistol in hip-pocket, Derby hat.
JUBE. Woolly wig, black face, throat, and arms, red shirt thrown
back from throat, with sleeves rolled up to elbow, overalls in
boots.
WIN-KYE. White pants, blue blouse, cue.
SILAS. Red wig, mustache, and goatee, tourist blouse, long boots,
slouch hat.
MOTHER. Gray wig, calico dress.
AGNES. Travelling-dress and hat.
MOSELLE. _First Dress._ Travelling-dress, hat and feather, neat
and tasty. _Second Dress._ Short red dress, blue kerchief knotted
loosely on breast, light stockings, boots, broad-brimmed straw hat,
arms bare, hair free.
THE LOST MINE.
ACT I.--_Wooded and rocky flat; inclined run R., masked by
rocks, leading up from a rocky platform C.; door and part of
a log cabin, L., creepers and vines running over it, rocks
and foliage; L. mask the remainder; R. rocks and foliage,
rock for a seat R., near 2 entrance. Stump for a seat L.,
between platform and door; on rock masking run R. in large
white letters, "Busted's Balm" to which with paint-pail in
left hand, and brush in right, SILAS STEELE is discovered
giving a finishing touch. SILAS sings_,--
Oh! here's to good old Busted,
Write him down;
Oh! here's to good old Busted,
Write him down;
Oh! here's to good old Busted,
For his balm is always trusted:
Write him down, write him down, write him down.
(_Stands off, and looks at his work._) Again the missionary of
health plants his victorious banner on a giant bowlder, that shall
forever point the westward hoers to the fountain of health. (_Sets
down pail, and looks at his hands._) A fountain of water would be
more to my taste just now: the handle of that pail is in a bad
condition, but I'll fix it. (_Takes a newspaper from his pocket,
and wraps it round handle while speaking._) Big scheme of Busted
to spread his balm all over the continent, from Switcham, Vt., to
the top of the Sierra Nevadas. Such outward applications of the
infallible awaken curiosity, curiosity stirs the sluggish brain to
action, the active brain arouses the torpid system, and health
re-animates the sinking frame. For further particulars see small
bills. That M's a little shaky; I'll touch it up a little, or some
of these hardy miners will take it for a bad spell: and, being so
choice in their language, that would never do. (_Works with brush.
Sings_),--
Oh! here's to good old Busted.
(_Enter from cabin MOTHER MERTON, with broom._)
MOTHER. Who on earth is that howling?
SILAS (_sings_),--
Write him down,
MOTHER. A stranger! What's he doing to that rock?
SILAS (_sings_),--
Oh! here's to good old Busted.
MOTHER. Busted! I do believe he's trying to blast it right before
my door--blow us all up. (_Brings broom down on his back smartly._)
Here, stop that!
SILAS (_turning, and presenting brush like a pistol_). Look out
for paint. (_MOTHER steps back._) I beg your pardon; but, if there
is any thing in my personal appearance that leads you to suspect
my jacket needs dusting, a gentler application of the duster might
save the dustor some strength, and the dusteed much wind. Hang it!
you nearly took away my breath.
MOTHER. Served you right. Who are you? Where did you come from?
What's that daub?
SILAS (_aside_). Daub! shade of Michael Angelo! (_Aloud._) Madam, I
am a missionary.
MOTHER. Good gracious! A parson. Why didn't you say so before?
Settled?
SILAS. No. (_Rubs shoulders._) I thought I was just now.
MOTHER. Where do you hail from, parson?
SILAS. Switcham, Vt. That answers your second interrogatory. The
third I will save you the trouble of repeating by announcing the
fact that the daub, as you are pleased to call my etching, is the
good tidings I am ordained to proclaim. That's one of my sermons;
and sermons in stones, though not original with me, have at least
the merit of brevity to recommend them.
MOTHER. "Busted's Balm." Are you Busted?
SILAS. No; but I shall be if you ask any more questions.
MOTHER. Oh, come, be sociable! I came from Vermont myself.
SILAS. Possible?
MOTHER. Yes: twelve years ago, with my husband, expecting to return
in two years with a fortune; but in two years husband died.
SILAS. Ah! A _mis_fortune.
MOTHER. And here I've been ever since, the mother of this camp; and
my boys--white, black, and yellow--take good care that I have my
share of the dust.
SILAS (_shrugs shoulders_). I understand--with a broom.
MOTHER. La, parson! don't bear malice: do you suppose I'd have
struck you, if I'd an idea of your cloth?
SILAS. Thank you. My coat _is_ rather thin.
MOTHER. Expect to locate here? The boys would be mighty glad to
have you; and they'd see that you had a peaceful hearing, if they
had to shoot the whole congregation.
SILAS. Would they? Very kind of the boys, but I hope they'd leave
somebody to pass the contribution-box.
MOTHER. Vermont would see to the dust.
SILAS. Who's Vermont?
MOTHER. The best of the lot, steady as a clock, but a powerful
wrestler; that's his weakness.
SILAS. Is it? I've a strong weakness in that line too.
MOTHER. You'd have no show with him. Now, parson--
SILAS. Oh, drop that! This person is no parson, but, if the old
saying is true, just the opposite; for I am a deacon's son.
MOTHER. The deuce you are!
SILAS. No: the Deuce's grandson.
MOTHER. What's your name?
SILAS. Silas Steele, jun. I'm the little one, and dad's the big
Steele. I'm travelling for Busted's Balm.
MOTHER. Where do you expect to find it?
SILAS. 'Tis found already. And, to spread abroad the glorious fact,
I've taken a large contract; and it's the biggest undertaking any
undertaker ever undertook. I never realized before that there was
such a strong objection to clean white paint; but I've found it
out now, for I've been peppered by indignant shot-guns, pounded by
angry broomsticks, booted by revengeful brogans, and bulldozed by
man's faithful friends, the puppies.
MOTHER. Then, you're only a pill-pedler, after all.
SILAS. A pill-pedler! great Busted!
MOTHER. You said you were a missionary.
SILAS. So I am. What nobler mission than mine, to proclaim to a
suffering world, sunk in misery by aches and torments, the advent
of the wonderful cure-all that will eradicate the ills with which
the body groans, from bald head to bunions? For further particulars
see small bills. (_Looks off R._) Ah! there's a bowlder I missed;
must secure that before Foggarty's Liniment, or some other quack
nostrum, defaces the fair face of nature with a lie. (_Goes up run,
turns._) Good-by, widow. Give the parson's benediction to the boys.
(_Exit._)
MOTHER. Well, of all harum-scarum chaps, he's the tongueyist; I
couldn't get a word in edgeways.
(_Enter VERMONT, R. 2 E._)
VERMONT. Little one come, widder?
MOTHER. No: supper's all ready for her.
VERMONT. Stage's about due. Widder, I've a little matter on my mind
I'd like to pan out afore the little one gets here.
MOTHER. About her?
VERMONT (_sits on rock R._). Yes, about her. It's ten years,
widder, since your old man passed in his checks, and had a hole
scooped for him out there under the hill.
MOTHER (_sighs_). Ah, yes!
VERMONT. It was jest about that time that I dropped into your ranch
one dark night, with a little girl in my arms. She might have been
a five-year old--
MOTHER. Or six: we never could make out. She was burning with
fever. You found her in a basket, floating in the creek.
VERMONT. Exactly. That's what I told you, and I brought her to you
because you was the only female woman in the camp.
MOTHER. Yes: bless her! she brought luck with her.
VERMONT. You bet she did. Those little ones always do. Well, I
read a long while ago, while prospecting in the big book,--that's
pay-dirt way down to bed-rock,--about that king pin what struck the
little game "Faro," and named it arter hisself, how he had a darter
what found a baby floating in a creek, and called it "Moses;" and,
as I warnt goin' back on scripter, I named our little one Moses too.
MOTHER. And, as that was not a girl's name, I changed it to Moselle.
VERMONT. That was too Frenchy for the boys; so they split the dif,
and called her Mosey.
MOTHER. And Mosey is just worshipped by the boys. I believe, if you
would let them, they would cover her with gold.
VERMONT (_rising_). Likely. But, when I washed that nugget outer
the creek, I staked a claim in which I wanted no partners. Says
I, "Vermont, here's a chance for you to use your dust, and don't
you forget it." I believe the angels dropped one of their little
sisters into the creek, to make an ugly old sinner ashamed of his
wickedness. (_Passes his arm across his eyes._) Widder, you've been
a mother to her, and a good one.
MOTHER. And you, the best of fathers. Every year you've sent her
off to school, and to-day she comes back to us----
VERMONT. With Tom Carew, our Tom, the handsomest and squarest miner
in the diggin's. I wouldn't trust the bringin' of her home to any
other of the boys.
MOTHER. Except Dick: she's very fond of Dick.
VERMONT. Dandy Dick, as the boys call him. Oh, he's well enough for
a short acquaintance. He's only been here six months, and there's
something about him--Well, if Mosey likes him, it's all right.
JUBE (_outside R._). Hi, hi! Mudder Merton, de stage am come,
Mosey's to hum.
(_Enter JUBE, down run, with a hat-box under one arm, a
valise in hand, followed by WIN-KYE with a valise in left
hand, an umbrella spread over his head. Jube comes down L.,
WIN-KYE drops valise on platform, tumbles over it, and mixes
himself up with the umbrella._)
JUBE. Golly, see dat ar mongo! hist yerself, hist yerself. Want to
broke ebery bone in dat ar ambril?
WIN-KYE (_jumping up and closing umbrella_). Umblillee spillee all
ligh'.
JUBE. Dar's a surprise party comin', Mudder Merton. Golly! such a
bobbycue. Smoove yer har, Vermont, smoove yer har, take yer boots
outer yer pants; dust de cheers, mudder, dust all de cheers; dar
hasn't been sich an arribal since--since the Queen ob Shebang went
wisiting ole King Soloman Isaacs, nebber.
WIN-KYE (_puffing_). Jube walkee fast, talkee fast, me no catchee
bleath, me puffee.
VERMONT. What's the matter, Jube? it's only our Mosey.
WIN-KYE. Mosey nice gally, velly nice gally; me chin chin Mosey,
Mosey chin chin me; all ligh'.
JUBE. Mosey. Yah, yah, she's come, bress her! Jes' as lobely and
libely as eber. Why, de boys jes' crowd roun' dat ar stage, and
shook her han's, and she shook back, an' laff; golly, how she laff!
might heard her a mile off. But dar's anuder.
MOTHER. Another, Jube?
JUBE. Yas indeed, a rale lady; no riff-raff, but de real ting,
de dust in de pan, jes a seraphine, hansom', oh, my! an' sweet,
sweet--golly! when I seed that lilly foot ob hers creepin' out ob
der stage, it jest smashed _me_.
WIN-KYE. She snapee eyes, she smilee so (_grins_), she smashee me.
MOSELLE (_outside_). Never mind me, Tom, help Agnes; my foot is on
my native heath, my name's (_appears on run_)--
ALL. Mosey?
MOSELLE. Yes, Mosey, Moses, Moselle,--we three. Ha, ha, ha! that's
me. (_Runs down into Mother Merton's arms._) O you dear old soul,
ain't I glad I'm home!
MOTHER. 'Tis a happy day for us, darling.
MOSELLE (_breaking away_). Where's daddy?
VERMONT. Right here, little one.
MOSELLE (_throws her arms about his neck_). Here's your nugget,
daddy. Ain't you glad to get it back?
VERMONT. Glad? that's no name for it (_holds her off_). Let's have
a look at you,--sunshine all over, and as fine as a fiddle in your
store-clothes.
MOSELLE. I'll not be in them long, daddy, so take a good look at
them; for I'm just dying to get into my old climbing-suit, and away
for a scamper over the rocks. Ah, Jube! there's lots of fun ahead.
JUBE. Yas, indeed, honey! jes' waitin' fer yer to touch it off.
MOSELLE. Ha, ha, ha! I'm a match for it. Ain't I, Win?
WIN-KYE. You sclatchee match, blow high-sky, fitt!
MOSELLE (_in front of WIN-KYE_). Oh, you queer bit of broken China!
I'd like to set you on a shelf at school, and set your head a-going
to please the boys. (_Points forefingers up, and nods head à la
Chinese._)
WIN-KYE (_imitating her_). No settee up fol the boys.
MOSELLE. Ha, ha, ha! but you must go. Ah, daddy! I'm as full of
mischief as I was the day I threw the powder-flask into your
frying-pan. (_All laugh._)
JUBE. Dat was rough on de ole man.
MOSELLE. Jube remembers it; for, while he was helping daddy put a
new roof on and patch up the rent, I hid his shovel and pick; and
he couldn't find it for a week. (_All but JUBE laugh._)
WIN-KYE (_points to JUBE_). That blakee him all uppee.
MOSELLE. So look out for yourselves, old folks, young folks: I give
you fair warning. Mind that pigtail, Win: I want it for my back
hair.
WIN-KYE. All ligh'! you catchee, you clippee, you Mosee, me mosee
too.
TOM (_outside_). Be careful of that rock, Miss. Give me your hand.
Now you're all right.
MOSELLE. Oh! what am I thinking of? Mother, I've brought you a
visitor,--Miss Fairlee, one of our teachers, and a very dear friend
of mine.
JUBE. Dat's what I tole yer, de Queen ob Shebang.
(_TOM and AGNES appear on run descending._)
MOTHER. She is heartily welcome.
TOM (_on platform_). You hear that, Miss,--she speaks for us all.
A rough set we miners, rough and rugged as the soil in which we
search for gold; but there are many among us who remember homes
far off, made happy by mothers, wives, and sisters. So have no
fears. To the rude cabins that shelter us, to the homely fare that
sustains us, and to the protection of strong arms, you are heartily
welcome. (_Leads her down to MOTHER MERTON._)
MOTHER (_takes her hand_). Indeed you are!
AGNES. Thank you. I fear I shall trespass on your kindness. But the
hope of finding some trace of a very dear friend has induced me to
accept Moselle's invitation.
MOSELLE. Agnes, you must know my daddy. (_Brings VERMONT up C. from
L._) Miss Fairlee, daddy; daddy, Miss Fairlee.
VERMONT (_bowing_). Very glad to meet you.
AGNES (_offering her hand_). And I am proud to know you. Moselle is
a bright scholar: she has made many friends at school, but I know
the warmest corner in her heart is kept for you.
VERMONT. Thank you, marm: if I can serve you, call on Vermont every
time.
JUBE. An' when de ole man ain't roun', jes' look dis way. I's spry,
and dreffel willin'.
WIN-KYE. Alle same so lookee me.
AGNES. Thank you all.
MOTHER. You must be hungry after your long ride. Supper's all ready.
MOSELLE. Supper! Where is it? I never was so hungry but once:
that's now.
MOTHER. This way, Miss Fairlee. (_Exeunt MOTHER and AGNES into
cabin._)
JUBE. Come on, Win. Tote de luggage in. (_Exit into cabin._)
WIN-KYE. All ligh'! Schoolee-marm some punkee. (_Exit to cabin._)
MOSELLE. Ain't she lovely, daddy? (_Goes to door, turns, and looks
at TOM, who stands L. C. looking at door._) Tom (_puts her hand on
heart, and sighs_), I'd pity you, but I'm so hungry. Ha, ha, ha!
(_Exit._)
(_VERMONT crosses, and sits on rock R., watching TOM, who
stands with his eyes on door._)
TOM. Lovely? Never was a more tempting bait set before the eyes of
a hungry miner to lure him back to civilization. Out of a world
from which we have banished ourselves for greed of gold, she
comes, gentle and refined, to show us the lost state of peace and
happiness to which, though the earth unbosom its richest treasures,
we hardened wretches can never return.
VERMONT. Tom, what yer starin' at that door for? Ain't in love, air
yer?
TOM (_comes down_). In love? I never yet saw a woman that could
bring a blush to my face. That's one of the indications, isn't it?
VERMONT. Exactly.
MOTHER _(sticking her head out of door_). Tom, come and have some
supper. (_Disappears._)
TOM. No, thank yer: I'm not hungry.
VERMONT. That's another indication.
TOM. Vermont, isn't she lovely?
VERMONT. The widder?
TOM. The widow! No: the other.
VERMONT. Mosey?
TOM. Miss Fairlee,--Agnes Fairlee,--Agnes,--what a name! So
poetical! Agnes,--so sweet!
VERMONT. Spell it, Tom: there's nothing like lengthened sweetness
long drawn out.
TOM. Old man, you're laughing at me. You needn't: I'm all right.
VERMONT. Not in love?
TOM. Not a bit of it.
VERMONT. Ain't goin' back on the comforts of life?
TOM. No, old man; but when that--
VERMONT. Agnes (_smacks his lips_) does taste kinder sweet.
TOM. When Miss Fairlee placed her little hand in my arm, and looked
up into my face, I felt as though I would like to die for her.
VERMONT. Must have been a killing look.
TOM. And when she spoke, the queerest feeling--There it is again.
Old man, I feel sick.
(_Enter JUBE and WIN-KYE from cabin._)
JUBE. Sick? Don't you do it. Dar ain't a fusycian widdin fourteen
miles.
WIN-KYE. Me bling pillee man velly quick.
VERMONT. All the doctor he wants is in the cabin. Tom, you're
talking like a blamed fool; but it's jest nater: when a woman
touches the fancy of a man, it's like the wind among the timber.
The little ones sway and rustle, and seem mighty tickled; but the
big brawny trees groan and tremble as though their last day had
come. Shake yourself together, boy, jump into your hole, a good
steady diet of pick and shovel is a sure cure for love or bile.
(_JERDEN appears on run._)
JERDEN (_speaking as he comes down to stage_). Morning, mates:
where can I find one Tom Carew?
TOM. I answer to that name, stranger.
JERDEN. Ah! I'm in luck. They say you're the best informed miner in
these parts. I'm looking for a man who came from the East,--Richard
Fairlee.
TOM. Don't know him, stranger.
VERMONT. Names don't count here. Most of us is baptized and
rechristened when we arrive. What does he look like?
JUBE. Has he got all his arms and legs, years and eyes?
WIN-KYE. Any strawbelly marks, John?
JERDEN. I have traced him by many _aliases_. How he looks now, I
cannot say; but when he left the East he looked like this.
(_Takes photograph from pocket-book, and hands it to TOM, who
looks at it, VERMONT, JUBE, and WIN-KYE crowd round him._)
TOM. A good-looking fellow. I don't know him.
JERDEN. Don't belong in this camp.
JUBE. No, sir: dat air feller ain't got no beard, an' has light
complex, jes' like Win-Kye.
WIN-KYE. No Chinaman; 'Melican man plaps, Ilishman plaps; no
Chinaman.
JERDEN. Well, there he is; and he's wanted by a bank.
TOM. Robbery?
JERDEN (C.). Forgery, twenty thousand dollars.
(_VERMONT and JUBE R., TOM and WIN-KYE L._)
TOM. You're a detective?
JERDEN. Yes. Shall I have your help in securing this fugitive from
justice?
TOM (_coldly_). We're not man-hunters. Many a poor fellow, made
criminal by passion or misfortune, has drifted among us to be made
better by a life of hardship and privation. We ask no man's past
history. If he be knave or fool, he shows his hand, and he is lost.
Miner law is swift and sure.
VERMONT. You've your answer, stranger.
JERDEN. All right: I'll find my man without your help; but, if you
should change your minds, there's a thousand dollars for the man
who gives information.
TOM and VERMONT (_draw revolvers, cover JERDEN, and speak
together_). You get!
(_JERDEN turns, and runs up run, against SILAS, who is
descending._)
SILAS. Look out for paint. (_Exit JERDEN._) Seems to be in a hurry.
(_Comes down to stage._) How are you, boys? White, black, and
yellow. The widow said she had an assortment of colors, and here
they are. Put up your shooting-irons, gentlemen: I'm a friend of
the widow's. I left my card here an hour ago. (_Points to rock._)
TOM. Any friend of the widow's is heartily welcome.
VERMONT. From the east, stranger?
SILAS (_sets paint-pail down near rock_). Switcham, Vt. Name, Silas
Steele. Occupation, painter and decorator. For further particulars
seek any prominent bowlder, and look out for paint.
JUBE. Golly! dar's a heap er talent in dat ar brush, I know; fur I
used to whitewash myself.
(_WIN-KYE edges up to paint, examines it, takes brush, and
daubs a little on rock during the following scene, dropping
it, and taking it up as SILAS turns and watches him._)
SILAS. Whitewash yourself? You took a big contract.
TOM. Stopping with the widow?
SILAS. No: only a chance acquaintance. She came from Vermont.
VERMONT. So did I.
SILAS. Did you? Then, you're the man I've been looking for.
VERMONT (_starts_). Eh?
SILAS. My old man took it into his head about twelve years ago to
start west, minin'; and we've never seen him from that day to this.
Nice old fellow, the deacon, but queer. Started off without so much
as a good-by, Hannah, and has been lost to his family, the church,
and Switcham, ever since. But we heard from him occasionally in
the shape of gold-dust to mother, but no word or clew to his
whereabouts. Mother's worried so, I've come out here to look him up
if he's alive. Any of you know Deacon Steele?
JUBE. Deacon who? Golly! we's all out ob deacons: dey fall from
grace when dey git out here.
VERMONT. You're wasting time, youngster: the deacon's dead and
buried.
SILAS. You knew him?
VERMONT. No: but deacons die young here.
TOM. Perhaps 'tis Nevada.
VERMONT and JUBE. Nevada!
SILAS. Who's Nevada?
TOM. The mystery of the mines: you may meet him here to-day,
to-morrow in some gloomy gulch,--a ragged, crazy miner, seeking, as
he has sought for ten years, a lost mine.
SILAS. A lost mine?
TOM (C.) This was his story as I have heard it from old miners.
He was known among them a dozen years ago, as a quiet, reserved
man, working by himself, wandering off prospecting alone. At times
they missed him. He had been off for a week, when, one night, he
came in staggering, faint from the loss of blood, with a deep
wound in his head, and the wild air of a maniac. From his broken
speech, they gathered this: He had found indications of gold,
had opened a tunnel, and worked far in, all by himself, mind,
following some theory of his own, when suddenly, with his pick, he
loosened a stone above his head, which fell and crushed him; not,
however, until he had caught one glimpse of a rich vein of gold.
Poor fellow, he could never find his way back, and none of his
mates could help him. They would have believed his story to be but
the wild speech of his wandering mind, had they not found in his
tangled hair, mingled with dirt and blood, flakes of gold.
VERMONT. Poor old chap.
SILAS. With a gold-mine in his hair. Rich old beggar.
TOM. Nevada is no beggar; though no cabin is shut against him, no
miner's friendly hand withheld. He will neither eat nor sleep until
he has earned both food and shelter. For a willing mate in an ugly
tunnel, with a steady grip and a strong arm, give me Nevada.
NEVADA (_outside_). Who calls Nevada? (_Dashes down run, and stands
C.; music pianissimo._) Nevada, the gold king. My dominions are
beneath the hills, stretching away in veins broad and deep, so rich
that I could overturn empires; but I am shut out, the golden doors
are closed against me, and the key, the key, is lost. (_Puts his
hand to head, drops his head, and comes down slowly; music stops._)
TOM. Ah! it's one of his off days. Nevada, old man, don't you know
me?
NEVADA (_slowly raises his head, looks wildly at TOM, then his face
brightens_). Tom, Tom Carew. (_They shake hands warmly._) You want
me. Many a day we have worked together. (_Looks round._) And here's
Vermont.
VERMONT (_grasping his hand_). Right here, pard.
NEVADA. Ah! old grizzly and--woolly.
JUBE. Dat's me to a har.
NEVADA. And little pigtail.
WIN-KYE. Piggee tail velly well, John; alle same you, John?
NEVADA. I'm hungry and tired, Tom: give me a pick.
TOM. Not to-night, old friend: you shall go to my ranch, and
to-morrow--
NEVADA. To-morrow. (_Looks about wildly. All draw away from him.
Music pianissimo._) To-morrow I must go back, back along the
ravine, three miles, then climb the bowlders, to where that fallen
giant lies across the stream; over it to the gorge a mile beyond,
and then--and then I'm lost--straight ahead to the right, to the
left, again and again, no trail, no trace; and yet 'tis there, ever
before my eyes, the wealth of a kingdom, the jewel of Nevada, lost
to me forever. (_Covers his face with his hands._)
TOM. Ah! if we could only keep him from that lost mine.
SILAS. What a wreck! But he's not the first man crazed by gold.
NEVADA. Far off, a mother and her child wait anxiously for my
coming,--wait for the gold I promised them. I left the little one
sleeping in her cradle. Oh! when shall I see my little child again?
(_Music stops._)
(_Enter, from cabin, MOSEY, with a change._)
MOSELLE (_running to him_). Now, Nevada, here I am. Have you, too,
missed me?
NEVADA (_looking into her face anxiously_). I know that voice and
that face.
MOSELLE. Of course you do. It's the same voice that has sang you to
sleep many and many a time, and it's the same face you have kissed
often. Why don't you now?
NEVADA (_takes her face between his hands, and kisses her
forehead_). It's little Moselle back from school.
MOSELLE. With a head full of knowledge, and a heart bubbling over
with fun.
VERMONT. And when the two get working together, this camp will be a
howling wilderness, you bet.
MOSELLE. Come, Nevada, mother will be glad to see you.
NEVADA. No, child: I cannot go in.
MOSELLE. Then, I'll lead you. You shall find plenty to do,--bring
water and wood for mother; and when you are tired I will sing for
you.
NEVADA. Sing! I'll come, I'll come. I love to hear you sing.
(_Music pianissimo._) She was singing to the child the whole day
long,--the little one sleeping in her cradle. She smiled in her
sleep when I stooped to kiss her, and that smile is ever with me.
I see it in the first faint, rosy tints of the breaking day, and
watch it deepen and broaden into gold--(_fiercely_)--gold that
mocks me, drives me mad. (_Music stops._)
MOSELLE. Come, come, Nevada, you need rest and quiet. (_Takes his
hand, and leads him into cabin._)
NEVADA. Yes, little one, with you. (_Music until off._)
TOM. He's safe for to-night.
SILAS. Now, if some good Samaritan would take me in, I'd esteem
it a favor for which I will pay liberally. (_Takes bag from his
breast._) Art is my mistress; but, when I get hungry, I turn my
eyes from her lovely face to the ground, and dig like the rest of
you. There's a little left in the bag.
TOM. You can't pay here.
VERMONT. No, tender foot; but you shall bunk with me.
TOM. With you, Vermont? He'll be the first stranger that ever saw
the inside of your ranch.
JUBE. Dat's so. Swachability ain't no 'count wid him.
VERMONT. Come on, stranger: it's jest about the time I fry my bacon.
SILAS. And it's just the time I eat mine,--when I can get it.
(_Exeunt VERMONT and SILAS R. 2 E., SILAS taking pail._)
JUBE. Golly! de idea ob dat ole Vermont takin' in a stranger. De
meanest man in de camp.
TOM. He's not mean with Mosey.
JUBE. Das a fac'. But to cotton to a tender hoof. Golly! I jes'
like to see him set about it. Come on, Win-Kye: see de fun. (_Exit
R. 2 E._)
WIN-KYE. All ligh', Jube. Me likee funee too. (_Exit R. 2 E._)
(_Enter DANDY DICK down run, knapsack on back._)
DICK (_speaking as he comes down_). If there's any fun, let me
share it.
TOM. Ah, Dick!
DICK. Tom (_they shake hands_), you brought the sunlight with you?
TOM. Yes, Dick: Mosey's safe and well.
DICK. Tom, the old hole's petered out. (_Takes off knapsack, and
drops it near rock R. C._) I've dug and panned for a week, and not
an ounce of dust.
TOM. That's bad; but better luck next time.
DICK. Luck! Not while you hold to such an unlucky partner as I.
Tom Carew, I never met a man I so much admired as I do you. When I
dropped into this camp, a stranger, without a penny, you took me
by the hand, let me in to your claim, an equal partner,--the best
paying claim in the camp,--till I struck it; since then we haven't
panned enough to pay for bacon. It's my infernal luck. I wouldn't
care for myself, but to blast your prospects of a rich find--
TOM. Hold on, Dick. You complain of bad luck,--you whom Moselle
loves.
DICK. That's another matter.
TOM. Right. The pure ore of a loving heart is not to be compared
to the glittering lie we take to ourselves with which to purchase
happiness. The one purifies and ennobles its possessor, the other
too often drags us down to the dust from which we filch it.
DICK. Sentimental, Tom? Why, what's come over you?
TOM. A woman. No, an angel. Dick, the sweetest woman you ever set
eyes on.
DICK. That's Moselle.
TOM. Oh, you're blind!
DICK. And you expect me to see through your eyes? Well, who is this
paragon?
TOM. Moselle's friend, who came home with her to-day. I have only
met her once. She is all grace and beauty, and, I'll swear, as good
as she is beautiful. If I could only win her, Dick.
DICK. Well, what's to prevent?
TOM. I am only a poor miner, and she--
DICK. A poor judge of manhood, if she takes you at your own
valuation. Send her to me: I'll tell her, that if she wants a warm
heart, a determined spirit, and a courageous arm, she will find
them in Tom Carew, who, in those virtues, stands head and shoulders
above all the miners of Nevada. I suppose that is her picture you
are nursing so carefully in your belt.
TOM. No: that is a poor devil whom a detective is tracking.
DICK. Ah! let's have a look at him. (_Takes picture._)
TOM. A detective was here an hour ago; but it's not one of our
boys. (_Turns away to L._)
DICK (_looks at picture, starts, but instantly recovers himself as
TOM turns_). No: he's none of us.
TOM. Not a bad face?
DICK. No, but a weak one. A good subject for some designing villain
to make a victim of. (_Hands it back, TOM replaces it in belt._)
(_MOSELLE runs on from cabin._)
MOSELLE. Now for a run.
DICK. Right into my arms.
MOSELLE (_runs into his arms_). Why, Dick, I never thought of
seeing you.
DICK. But you're glad to see me again?
MOSELLE. O Dick! you know I'd rather meet you than any other here
(_sees TOM, draws away from DICK, and casts down her eyes_), except
Tom.
TOM. Humbug!
MOSELLE. And Tom is lost to me. Poor Tom! He's discovered a
wonderful nugget. It's in our cabin now; and Tom is so worried that
he's been watching the door ever since it was deposited there, for
fear some one should steal it. Ha, ha, ha!
TOM. I was only waiting till you should appear to keep Dick
company. Now I'm off. (_Goes to R. 2 E._)
MOSELLE. Don't be gone long, Tom, we shall be so lonesome without
you.
TOM. Oh, have your little love-feast! I'll be back in time.
MOSELLE. In time for what?
TOM. To count the spoons. (_Exit R. 2 E._)
MOSELLE. Now, what does he mean by that?
DICK. I'm sure I don't know, unless he expects you and I to--
MOSELLE (_holding up her finger threateningly_). Beware!
DICK. Exactly. _Beware_ silver ware, spoons. (_Puts arm about her
waist._)
MOSELLE (_slips away_). Oh, drop the spoons!
DICK. But you dropped my arm.
MOSELLE. I like freedom.
DICK. Then, why do you run away from me?
MOSELLE. To catch my breath. Freedom is a virtue. You make it a
vice.
DICK. Ah! but remember, I haven't seen you for three months. Think
of the lonely hours without you.
MOSELLE. Think of my lonely hours over those horrid
studies,--geography, history, arithmetic! One and one are two.
DICK (_again slipping his arm about her waist_). No: one and one
_are one_.
MOSELLE. You're wrong, Dick: one and one are still one and (_slips
away_) one.
DICK. Moselle, I'm afraid you'll never be won.
MOSELLE. Not by arithmetic. I hate figures.
DICK. I admire yours.
MOSELLE. Do you, Dick? What! in these rags? Ah! you should see me
in regimentals.
DICK. Regimentals?
MOSELLE. Yes: silks and satins, kids and laces, as Madam Ferule
turns us out for inspection.
DICK. I should like that.
MOSELLE. I hate it. Give me a gown like this, that shows the
honorable tears of contact with briers and rocks; a pair of boots
like these, that won't slip on the bark of trees,--and I'm just
jolly. I can run, climb, fly. And here I am wasting time. I can
stand still no longer. I'm off (_flies up run_): catch me if you
can.
DICK. Moselle!
MOSELLE (_stops and turns_). Well, Dick?
DICK. Good-by. In a few moments I shall have left the camp.
MOSELLE (_coming down_). Left the camp! why?
DICK. That is my secret; you may hear bad report of me, may be told
to shun me, taught to despise me; but, Moselle, believe me, I love
you, and will one day ask you to be my wife.
MOSELLE. Your wife! Dick, who are you?
DICK. Still Dick, or Dandy Dick as the boys style me: the other, an
honored name, must still be withheld, even from you. You see, I am
frank with you.
MOSELLE. Frank! you tell me nothing.
DICK. Exactly; but I love you.
MOSELLE. You needn't have told me: I knew it long ago.
DICK. And I may hope?
MOSELLE. Yes, on one condition.
DICK. Name it.
MOSELLE (_darting up run_). That you catch me before I reach the
big bowlder.
DICK. Catch me losing you. (_Exit up run._)
(_Enter TOM R. 2 E._)
TOM. Dick, where's my knife? (_Looks round._) Gone! The cabin is
upside down, no hatchet, no knife; nice housekeeper to leave when
one goes a journey. There's his pack, and I want my knife; so,
Master Dick, by your leave--(_Picks up pack, and is at work on the
strap; enter AGNES from cabin._)
AGNES. I wonder what keeps Moselle.
TOM (_rises, and removes his hat_). Miss Fairlee!
AGNES. O Mr. Carew! the very man I was thinking of.
TOM. Were you? That's odd--no, even--for I was thinking of you: in
fact, I've done little else but think of you. (_Confused, takes up
pack._) No: I don't mean that--confound this strap!--you see, my
partner has left every thing in confusion: he's no housekeeper.
AGNES. Did you ever know a man that was? You need a wife, Mr. Carew.
TOM. I know it: that's the reason I was thinking of you.
AGNES (_laughs_). You're the tenth miner who has said the same
thing to me within a month.
TOM. Only ten? well, it's been a pretty bad month.
AGNES. I hope not.
TOM. Yes: the boys are off in their holes. Wait a few days, and the
air will be black with matrimonial speculators.
AGNES. Then, I think I'd better be leaving.
TOM. Good fellows, too, who will make their advances timidly, and
feel relieved when they are put out of their misery by a refusal.
AGNES. All of them?
TOM (_dropping pack_). No: for here and there among miners, as
among men in every station, you will find one who looks upon women
as pure gold; as something to be approached with reverence, and, if
won, to be enshrined in the devotion of a life.
AGNES. Such men are scarce.
TOM. And such women plenty, but they don't come this way often.
AGNES. Did ever such a woman cross your path?
TOM (_sighs_). In my dreams.
AGNES (_laughs_). A visionary woman. Do you see her often?
TOM. As often as I see you.
AGNES (_turns away confused. Aside_). This must go no farther.
(_Aloud._) Mr. Carew, would you do me a service?
TOM. Willingly.
AGNES. A very dear friend, one to whom I am in duty bound, has left
his home and friends. I have reason to believe he is in this part
of the country. Will you help me find him?
TOM (_agitated_). Very dear to you?
AGNES (_casting down her eyes_). Yes.
TOM (_after a struggle_). His name?
AGNES. I cannot tell you that: I cannot even give you the name by
which he is known.
TOM. Then, how am I to discover him?
AGNES. You have my name: go among the miners, tell them of me and
my quest. He will hear of me, and, in spite of dangers that beset
him, will find some way to meet me.
TOM. You set me a hard task.
AGNES. But you will make the attempt? O Mr. Carew! if you could
look into that once happy home, now desolate by the absence of
a son, for whom a fond mother is slowly but surely breaking her
heart, a loving sister mourning, and I--I would give the world to
reclaim! (_Weeps._)
TOM. He shall be found. I'll seek him. Your name shall be the spell
to conjure him from his hiding-place, were he in the deepest mine
of Nevada.
AGNES. Oh, thanks, thanks! I knew that in you I should find a
friend, a helper.
TOM (_bitterly_). Rare confidence, when you have known me but a day.
AGNES. Longer than that. Your brave acts, the generous promptings
of your true and noble heart, have been morning lessons to me for
many a day.
TOM. You speak in riddles. Where have you heard aught of me?
AGNES. From Moselle, who believes, were she in danger, you would
never forsake her. From her eloquent thankfulness of heart, I was
led to hope that I, too, might find a champion in you.
TOM. Thank you. You were right. I will serve you faithfully.
AGNES (_giving him her hand_). Thank you. (_Looks into his face,
then casts down her eyes, and slowly exits into cabin._)
TOM (_stands looking after her, then looks at the hand she took,
then sighs_). "One who is very dear to me." She said that,--said it
calmly, never dreaming of the crushing force with which those words
fell. One very--He is her lover, perhaps her husband. And I--I love
her. (_Sighs._) Well, old boy, you've struck a blind lead this
time. No pay-dirt here; and yet, I'll swear there was something in
those sweet eyes of hers. (_Sighs._) I must forget her. I'll quit
the camp, get far away, and then--no, I have promised to serve her,
and I'll do it. Bring him to her arms. (_Sighs._) Not a pleasant
task; but I'll do it, I'll do it. (_Goes to pack._) Now for my
knife. (_Opens pack, pulls out blanket._) There's no knife here.
(_Unrolls blanket. Sitting on rock, photograph drops out._) What's
this? A picture! (_Looks at it, rises._) It's Agnes, Agnes Fairlee;
and he, Dick, is the runaway, her lover, perhaps her husband,
Fairlee? (_Pulls other picture from belt._) Why, this (_looks at
it closely_) is Dick. Put a beard on that face, and 'tis Dick the
forger. I sha'n't have to go far to find him; and he and I both
love the same woman. One word to that detective, he is in prison
and she is free. Well, I must be pretty far gone to harbor such
a thought. Betray my partner, the man with whom I have eaten and
slept, dug and quarried? No, no, not for so bright a pair of eyes
as yours, Agnes Fairlee.
DICK (_outside_). Moselle, where are you?
MOSELLE (_laughing_). Ha, ha, ha! Seek and find, seek and find.
TOM. Ah! I had forgotten our Moselle. She loves him; and he,
villain that he is, has trifled with her. She must be protected,
saved, though justice overtake him. (_Darts up run._)
(_Enter JUBE, R. 2 E._)
JUBE. Say, Tom, Thomas, whar's de fire? Say! so he's off: yas,
so's ole Vermont. Nebber did see sich carrin's on in de 'hole
course ob my life. Jes took dat ar tender hoof, de whitewasher,
into his cabin, gib him de best cheer,--on de floor,--de best
china, den fill him up wid bacon, chock up to de muzzle: den tender
hoof was tired--too much bacon--laid down on de bench, an' went to
sleep, ole man settin' dar watchin' him. Bym-by de ole man get up
sofly, git a blankit, kivers him up, tucks him in. Seed it all fro
a crack. Ole man jes clean gone on dat ar tender hoof.
(_Enter MOTHER, from cabin._)
MOTHER. Jube, where's Moselle?
JUBE. Oh, she's in anoder scrape.
MOTHER. What kind of a scrape?
JUBE. Candy-scrape, I guess. She an' Dandy Dick havin' a sweet time
up dar onto de rocks.
MOSELLE (_coming down run_). O mother, mother!
(_Throws her arms about MOTHER'S neck._)
MOTHER. Why, what's the matter, child?
MOSELLE. Don't ask me. Look there.
(_Enter down run, DICK, his hands fastened behind him, head
down, followed by JERDEN, with a pistol in his hand._)
JERDEN. Attempt escape, and you are a dead man.
(_DICK comes slowly down, goes R., and sits on rock. JERDEN
stands beside him._)
JUBE. By golly, he's took!
(_Enter VERMONT, R. 2 E._)
VERMONT. Who's took?
JUBE. Dandy Dick. He's de twenty fousan feller.
VERMONT. Ah! we've a traitor in the camp. Who has done this?
(_Crosses to L._)
TOM (_descends run_). Tom Carew.
VERMONT. You, Tom? (_Levels pistol._) Then, take that.
MOSELLE (_throws herself before TOM_). No, daddy, not Tom. O Tom!
why have you done this?
TOM. For your sake, little one: he has deceived you.
DICK. 'Tis false!
(_Enter AGNES, from cabin._)
AGNES. Who's that? Ah! (_Runs across stage, and falls on DICK'S
neck._) Richard!
DICK. Agnes!
TOM. Look there, Moselle. (_Points to DICK._)
MOSELLE. No, no! (_Throws herself into VERMONT'S arms._) O daddy,
my heart is breaking!
(CURTAIN ON PICTURE.--_TOM C., points to DICK. AGNES
kneeling, her arms about DICK'S neck. JERDEN behind them.
JUBE L. C., scratching his head. MOTHER at door L., her hands
clasped, looking at DICK. VERMONT with MOSELLE'S arms about
his neck L._)