Kitobni o'qish: «Nevada»

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.

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 misfortune.

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.

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.)

Act II. —Interior of Vermont's cabin of rough logs, door C., window with swinging shutter L. C. mountain, wood and rocks as in Act I.; fireplace R., with fire; stool near. Table L. C., with stools R. and L. of it. Bench R., near first entrance, on which Dick is discovered asleep, covered with a blanket. Jerden sitting R. of table watching Dick; Win-Kye at window, looking in; candle burning on table. Lights down

Win-Kye. All ligh'! Catchee man, and man he catchee: all ligh'. Jube he say 'Win-Kye watchee catchee man; no let catchee man kille man he catchee.' Gollee! me pleceman: all ligh'.

Jerden. How he sleeps! No wonder, poor devil! These miners are any thing but sociable, when the officers of the law are to be entertained. Every cabin shut against us. Fortunately old Vermont took himself off to-night; and I've taken possession, no doubt to be turned out on his return. This beard's mighty uncomfortable. (Takes off beard, and lays it on table.)

Win-Kye. Ki, yi! Catchee man shabee click, no soapee, no lazor.

Jerden. He little dreams who his captor is. Curse him! he stood between me and the dearest wish of my life; but I have him now. A rare streak of luck. I forged the check he bungled with. Like a fool, he cut and run. That was all right, for had he faced the music it might have been hot for me; but she, Agnes Fairlee, she, too, disappeared. I had risked all for nothing. But as Jerden, the detective, I have tracked him, and found her. Now let me get him away from here: she will follow, and then – (Dick moves.) Ah! (Hastily replaces beard.)

Win-Kye. Catchee man flaid he catchee cold. Sh! schoolemarm. Me hoppee stick. (Runs by door, and exit R.)

Jerden (rises). Ah! who's there?

(Enter, past window through door, Agnes.)

Agnes (at door). May I speak with your prisoner?

Jerden (bows). I hate to refuse a lady; but my orders are, to let none communicate with him until he is placed in jail.

Agnes. In jail?

Jerden. Still, as you seem to be a very dear friend of his —

Agnes. You will grant my request?

Jerden. If you will give me your word he shall not escape.

Agnes. You will leave us alone?

Jerden. Certainly.

Agnes. I give you my pledge he shall not escape.

Jerden (goes up). Then, I will retire – out of hearing, but not out of sight. My eyes will still be upon him; and, if he attempts flight, a well-aimed bullet shall be the signal for my return. (Exit past window off L.)

(Agnes looks after him, then comes down, and taps Dick on shoulder.)

Agnes. Richard!

Dick (starting up). No, no, Moselle, 'tis false, false. (Rubs his eyes.) Ah! Agnes, is it you?

Agnes. Yes, Richard. How can you sleep at such a time?

Dick. At such a time? It is the first real rest I have had for a year. Agnes, if you had skulked and hid as I have, if you had started from sleep at every sound, had trembled at the approach of every stranger, had feared an enemy would spring from every bush you passed, you would know what a blessed relief it is to feel that all is over.

Agnes (sits on stool R. of table). Then, why did you fly from justice?

Dick. Because I was a coward. Afraid to face that same justice, and so have suffered more torments than even her sternest sentence would have inflicted. Now I am going back to face her, and proclaim my innocence.

Agnes. Your innocence?

Dick. Have you ever doubted it?

Agnes. Yes. Your strange flight, your silence for a year, the circumstances —

Dick. Were all against me. Agnes, I am suffering for the crime of another. You knew him, – Stephen Corliss.

Agnes. Your friend?

Dick. So he called himself. You know how we became acquainted. He was a friend of the junior partner of the firm of Gordon, Green, & Co., by whom I was employed. He took a fancy to me, invited me to his rooms, insisted on my being his companion in drives, to the theatres, and in other amusements. It was at his request that I brought him home, and introduced him to you.

Agnes. I never liked him: I told you his companionship would do you no good.

Dick. You did. One day he asked me to step round to the bank, and cash a check made in his favor by Gordon, Green, & Co. It was for twenty thousand dollars. I was not surprised at the amount; as I knew he was considered a man of wealth, and had large dealings with the concern. I laughingly asked him if he was not afraid to trust me with so large an amount, to which he replied, "No: if you are not afraid to draw it." I went to the bank, agreeing to meet him at his rooms with the money. On presenting it at the bank, the teller looked at the check suspiciously, and took it to the cashier. One of the clerks whispered to me, "Look out for yourself, Dick, that check's a forgery." Forgery! I started at the word: to me it had always been a horror. I left the bank, not knowing what I was doing. I flew to Corliss's rooms: the door was locked, and on it a placard, "Gone to Europe." I turned and ran, that word "forgery" burning into my brain, through the city, out into country, as if pursued by tormenting fiends. A fever attacked me; and, when I recovered, I found myself in the hands of strangers. Then commenced my wanderings, which have ended here where they should have begun, – in capture.

Agnes. Have you never communicated with your employers, avowed your innocence?

Dick. Never.

Agnes. Why, Richard, you have acted like a madman!

Dick. Haven't I? Perhaps the word "Fool" would be better. How easily I might have cleared myself. How – Oh, well! I'm not the first man who has been wrecked on the reefs of "Might have been."

Agnes. But this man's motive? Why did he act thus?

Dick. Because he loved you. I was in the way.

Agnes. Loved me? Then, through that love I can save you.

Dick. Perhaps you can, but you shall not. I'll take my chances with the law.

Agnes. I shall return with you.

Dick. No: you must stay here in the charge of a friend, the only man I can trust, – Tom Carew.

Agnes. He your friend? Why, he betrayed you!

Dick. So he did: I forgot that. But then, he put me out of my misery, so we'll forgive him.

Agnes. You may, but I, never. I had begun to like your friend. (Tom appears at window.) I thought him good and noble: I find him base and treacherous. I hate this Tom Carew. (Crosses to L.)

Tom (aside). If you don't, you're not the woman I thought you.

Dick. Oh! Tom's a good fellow, only just now he's in love.

(Enter Tom, door C.)

Tom (to Agnes). If he had no other excuse than that, he would be what you just now styled him, – base and treacherous.

Agnes. Have you not proved yourself so, betrayed your friend, deceived me?

Tom. Deceived you?

Agnes. Did you not promise to seek him I sought, to bring him to me? How have you kept your word? By betraying him to the man from whom I sought to save him. Is this a token of your boasted regard for mothers, wives, and sisters?

Tom. Hear me before you condemn. In these wild lands is a tender flower, gladdening the hearts of rough miners by its fragrance and beauty. From its coming it has been fondly cherished and tenderly cared for. Yesterday it was trampled in the dust by one who knew the fearful wrong he was committing.

Dick. Ah! The flower is Moselle.

Tom. And the despoiler you. That fact known among the miners, your life would answer for it; but, knowing there was one to whom you were very dear, for her sake I checked the first promptings of vengeance, and gave you into the hands of justice.

Dick. To save me from Judge Lynch. I see.

Tom. Whose sentence you richly deserve.

Dick. Don't be too sure of that.

Tom. Now, having saved you from Judge Lynch, it is your turn to save yourself from the detective. My horse is tied outside. Take yourself off.

Agnes. No, you must not attempt escape: his eyes are upon you. A movement, and he will shoot.

Moselle (outside). Ha, ha, ha! (Runs in door, C.) Shoot! I guess not, when he's strapped to a tree. Hear him holler.

Jerden (in the distance). Help! Help!

Dick. Moselle, what does this mean?

Moselle. Fun! I told you I was all ready for it; and so, while Tom held the "catchee man," as Win calls him, I gave him the benefit of a rope.

Dick. Hung him?

Moselle. Ha, ha, ha! No, only quartered him – under a tree.

Tom. Now, Dick, off with you. Here's my dust (offers bag), and the horse will carry two.

Dick. Not your dust, Tom. I'm to have a companion: who is it?

Tom (with a glance at Agnes). Can you ask?

Dick. I can. Moselle, will you go with me?

Moselle. Me?

Tom (seizes Moselle and places her behind him). Do you dare, before (points to Agnes) the one who has come miles to reclaim you? You know where your duty lies. Take her (takes Agnes by the hand, and leads her up to Dick), and away!

Dick. What! Run off with my own sister?

Tom (staggering back to window). Sister?

Moselle. His sister! Ain't this jolly! O Dick! (Runs into his arms.) I'm just dying for a run.

Dick. Then, off we go. (Exit door C., with arm about Moselle.)

Tom. His sister! (Agnes sits L. of table, throws her arms on table, face on her arms.) Well, Tom Carew, you've struck bed-rock now, and no mistake. His sister; and there she is, grieving, because he's gone. (Comes down R.) And she hates me. "I had just begun to like your friend." Hang it! and I, like a blamed mule, have kicked over the pan, and scattered the dust. (Sits R. of table, puts his arms on it, looks at Agnes a moment, then puts his face down on his arms. Agnes looks up, smiling.)

Agnes (aside). He is a good fellow: only, as Dick says, he's in love. (Tom raises his head. She quickly drops hers, as before.)

Tom. I wish I could say something to comfort her; but no: she hates me. (Drops as before. She raises her head.)

Act III. —Same as Act I. – Win-Kye enters down run, carrying paint-pail in one hand, brush in other

Win-Kye. Ole man talkee, painteeman talkee: all ligh', Win-Kye walkee, cally pail, inside he mouth he plenty cly, "lookee out fol paint." Painteeman, Chinaman, alle same.

Jube (appearing on run). Win, you imp ob sin, you, you Shanghi, you jes' brung back dat ar whitewash.

Win-Kye. All ligh', Jubee, me bling 'em back, in the sweetee bymby.

Jube (comes down). Look yere, you Celestial imp, quit yer fool! dis year ain't no time for mischievity; dis year am a solem' occasion; de ole man's found his long forgotten chile, – his lost offsprung, – an' – an' you've run off wid der baby's playthings.

Win-Kye. Muchee solly, baby cly. Supposee you sing him, —

 
"Littee Jack Horner
Makee sit inside corner,
Chow-chow he Clismas pie.
He put inside tu'm,
Hab catchee one plum.
Hi, yah! what one good chilo my!"
 

Jube. Golly! hear dat Chineesers infusions ob potrey. Dat all comes ob his contract wid art. Win-Kye, gib me dem ar 'tensils.

Win-Kye. Me paintee locks, me paintee tlees, all samee so. (Points at sign on rock.) "Washee, washee." (Exit 1 E. R.)

Jube. See him hoof it. Dis years de melencolic effect ob tryin' to turn a mongo into a Sambo. I's jes' tried to cibilize dat ar heathen, to gib him a brack heart; an' he no sooner gits a hold ob a paint-brush, off he goes, like ole Nebacanoozer, on a tear.

(Enter Moselle, from cabin.)

Moselle. Jube, have you seen my daddy?

Jube. Seen your what? Golly, Mosey, you took my bref away! Seen him! Well, I guess, Mosey, dar was a yearthquake jes' flopped ober dis year camp las' night: seed it, seed it, felt de shock fro my physical cistern; an' I guess de ole man is scourin' round to kill a fatted calf or a mule.

Moselle. What are you talking about, Jube?

Jube. Mosey, brace yerself: be a man. De Book ob Rebelation am open. Abigal's son am returned.

Moselle. Who's son?

Jube. Abigal's son. Don't you know what de good Book says?

Moselle. The prodigal son, Jube.

Jube. What's de dif? what's de dif? Dat gal's son am returned to his fadder's buzzum; and you're shook. You may cry, "Hi, daddy! ho, daddy!" but dar am no daddy.

Moselle. Jube, tell me, quick, what has happened to daddy?

Jube. I'll tole yer all about it. Las' night I went down to de ole man's ranch on perticlar business. Well, de ole man was down dar, I was down dar, Win was down dar, an' – an' somebody else was down dar. Now, you know de ole man dat was down dar; you know me dat was down dar; you know Win dat was down dar; but – but you can't guess who dat somebody else was, dat was down dar, to dat ar ranch down dar.

Moselle. Why should I guess who was down dar, when you are so anxious to tell me?

Jube. Well, I tole yer.

(Enter Vermont, R. 2 E.)

Vermont. At your peril, Jube.

Moselle. O daddy, here you are! (Crosses from L. to R.) I was about to hear something dreadful about you.

Jube. Yas, indeed. I was jes' breakin' to her, genteel, de mournful tidin's.

Vermont. I'll break your head if you say another word. You git.

Jube. Yas; but I got her all braced. I can finish in just free minutes. You see, I was down dar —

Vermont. If you're not up there in less than three minutes – (Puts hand behind him.)

Jube (runs up stage). Don't you do it, don't you do it. I was only goin' to say dat, dat somebody else down dar —

Vermont. Start.

Jube. Was Abigal's son. (Dashes up run, and off)

Moselle. Ha, ha, ha! Poor Jube! He missed his chance by stopping too long "down dar." Now, daddy, what's the matter? where's the "yearthquake" struck?

Vermont. That's some of the darkey's nonsense.

Moselle. Now, daddy, that's a fib. Look me in the eye. No. Stop! If it's any thing I should know, you will tell me: you've always been so good to me.

Vermont. Well, never mind me. What have they done with Dandy Dick, the forger?

Moselle. He's no forger. He's as innocent of crime as you are. O daddy! I want some money.

Vermont. All right, little one. (Pulls out bag.) What's the figger?

Moselle. It's rather high.

Vermont. Never mind: the bank's open.

Moselle. Twenty thousand dollars.

Vermont. Twenty! Bank's broke. (Puts back bag.) We ain't struck no diamond mine lately, and nuggets are scarce. Couldn't you make a little discount?

Moselle. O daddy! twenty thousand dollars will set Dick free.

Vermont. Free! Not an ounce of dust comes out of my bag for him. He's played you a mean trick; and, if the detective don't take him off, I will. Why, Mosey, I thought you had more spirit.

Moselle. I love him, daddy.

Vermont. And he with another gal hanging round his neck.

Moselle. Why, daddy, she's his sister!

Vermont. What! (Aside.) Another prodigal! This camp's getting lively. (Aloud.) His sister. That's another sort.

Moselle. And you will find the money?

Vermont. Find twenty thousand? Oh, yes, Mosey! I'll take my pick, and go right off. As finds are about here, it may take a few years —

Moselle. Years! We must have it to-day. O daddy, you've plenty banked at Carson!

Vermont. Mosey, when you was a little gal, we used to sit down by the creek.

Moselle. Where you found me, longer ago than I can remember.

Vermont. We used to sit there day after day, while I told you stories.

Moselle. Yes, fairy stories.

Vermont (sits on rock, R.). I'll tell you one now.

Moselle (sits on the ground beside him, throws arm across his knee). A fairy story?

Vermont. I reckon. Once on a time there was a gospel shebang, and in it was a gospel sharp and a pan lifter.

Moselle. You mean a church, a parson, and a deacon?

Vermont. That's just what I mean.

Moselle. Then, please remember, you are talking to a young lady, and not to the boys.

Vermont. Jes' so. Well, the parson and the deacon didn't hitch horses, – couldn't work in the same hole, – were always flinging dirt all over each other, whenever they got to arguing. So one day they had it hot about wrastling Jacob and the angel. The deacon thought Jacob didn't have a fair show. He allowed that Jacob, at collar and elbow, would have thrown the angel every round; and the parson got mad, and told the deacon if he'd step behind the she – church, he'd show him the angel's trip. The deacon wa'n't to be stumped at wrastlin', so at it they went. Three rounds, and the deacon went to grass every time. Now, when a parson can throw a deacon, it shows a backslidin' that's not healthy. So the deacon thought, and quietly packed his kit, and started for green fields and pasters new, leaving behind a wife and kids. Well, he struck jest about such a place as this, and stuck to it twelve years. He didn't forget the folks at home. Both his heart and his dust went back to 'em, and sometimes he'd have given all his old boots for one look at 'em.

Moselle. Why didn't he go back?

Vermont. What! With that wrastlin' angel bossing the shebang? Not for Jacob.

Moselle. Ho, ho! You are the deacon.

Vermont. I was. Now I'm only Vermont.

Moselle. And my daddy.

Vermont. Last night I wrastled again. I was thrown, and by a boy – my kid – from old Vermont.

Moselle. Your son?

Vermont. You bet.

Moselle. Oh, daddy! ain't you glad?

Vermont. Glad! Why, Mosey, he's got the angel trip, by which the parson threw me.

Moselle. But ain't you glad he's found you? It must be so good to hear news from home.

Vermont. Well, Mosey, you keep quiet: I don't want the boys to know he's my son. I've told you —

Moselle. A fairy story. I understand.

Vermont. Jes' so. A fairy story, without the fairy.

Moselle (rising). Oh! you're the fairy, for you are always doing good. But where is he? I must see him.

Vermont. In my ranch.

Moselle. I'll just run down and have a peep at him, – the boy who threw the deacon – no, the fairy. Ha, ha, ha! (Runs off R. 2 E.)

Vermont. I reckon I'm a healthy old fairy.

(Enter Mother, from cabin.)

Mother. Where's Moselle?

Vermont. She's just run down to have a look at the kid —

Mother. A look at what?

Vermont (aside). Hang it! There's a slip for the fairy. (Aloud.) She's just run down to my ranch. She'll be back in a minute. Widder, you believe that story about the creek and Mosey?

Mother. Certainly.

Vermont. Don't believe it any longer: it's a blamed lie.

Mother. Vermont!

Vermont. That's me, and here's the truth. I was diggin' in Goblin Gulch in them days; and one night a woman, with a child in her arms, came to my ranch. Poor thing! she was all used up with tramping. She was looking for a miner, – her husband, she said. She told me his name; and when she found I didn't know him, she jest dropped on the ground, and died there. I was alone with a dead woman and a live child, and not another soul within five miles. Well, widder, I was skeered. If I was found with them, as likely as not I'd been lynched for murder. So I jest buried the mother, and brought the child to you.

Widow. What was the name of her husband?

Vermont. Widder, that's the mischief. Blame my old wooden head, I couldn't remember. That's why I brought Mosey to you with a lie. If I'd told the truth, that would have been the first question you'd have asked me. If I could only remember that, – if I could only hear it again.

Mother. That would be a clew to Moselle's parentage.

Vermont. It will come to me some day. Till then, the little one has a daddy in old Vermont.

Mother. And a mother in me.

Vermont (holds out hand). Widder, put it there. (They shake hands.) I've heard tell of some wimmen that banked all their affections in one buzzum, and, when the proprietor of that bank went prospecting among the stars, kept gathering the same kind of gold-dust for the final deposit. I reckon, widder, you're one of that kind. And when you jine your pardner, Tom Merton, pure ore will be scarce in Nevada.

Mother. Ah, Vermont, what a pity you're a bachelor! You'd make such a good father.

Vermont (confused). Well, yes, jes' so. (Aside.) What will she say when she sees the kid?

Mother. And such a good husband! When I look at you, it seems as if I had my dear old man back again. Poor Tom! (Puts apron to her eyes.)

Vermont (looks at her, scratches his head). Poor old gal! (Puts arm around her waist.) Cheer up, widder: it's only a little while, and you'll hear his voice calling —

Silas (appearing on run). Say, dad, where's my paint-pot?

Vermont. The kid! (Runs off R. 2 E. Mother screams, and runs into cabin.)

(Silas comes down, looks after Mother, then after Vermont.)

Silas. For further particulars see small bills. After so recent reminders of his connubial relations, it strikes me that the deacon is a little giddy, and the sooner he is returned to the bosom of his family, the better.

(Enter Moselle, R. 2 E.)

Moselle. There was no one there. (Sees Silas.) Hallo, medicine man! Where's daddy?

Silas. My daddy?

Moselle. No: mine, – Vermont.

Silas (aside). Her daddy! Great heavings! The deacon's a Mormon! (Aloud.) So, Vermont is your daddy?

Moselle. Why, certainly. Didn't you know that?

Silas. Well, no. I haven't examined the family records lately. Who's your mammy?

Moselle. Mother Merton.

Silas. Murder!

Moselle. What's the matter?

Silas. That accounts for it.

Moselle. Accounts for what?

Silas. The very affecting embrace of an aged Romeo and a mature Juliet. I just now interrupted a tight squeeze, in which your mammy was the squeezeed, and your daddy the squeezor.

Moselle. You saw that? Ha, ha, ha! Won't the boys be tickled!

Silas. Boys! Do you mean to say there are boys too?

Moselle. Why, certainly, lots of them.

Silas (aside). Great Scott! There'll be music in the air, with an anvil chorus thrown in, when daddy goes marching home. (Aloud.) But where do I come in?

Moselle. You?

Silas. Yes. For if Vermont is your daddy, and Mother Merton your mammy, and Deacon Steele is my father, and Hannah Steele is my mother, I must belong somewhere among the boys – of the old boy.

Moselle. Why, you must be the kid – Abigal's son. Ha, ha, ha!

Silas. Abigal! (Aside.) What! Another family springing up! Oh, this is too much! Hannah Steele's young ones – Mother Merton's boys – Abigal's kid. The old Turk! I must get the old man home.

Moselle. So you're the boy that threw his father?

Silas. Threw him! Why, he's floored me!

Moselle. I'm real glad you've found him, he's so lonesome sometimes. And daddy's got a big heart that would take the whole world in.

Silas (aside). He seems to have taken in a pretty big slice of the better half already.

Moselle. Now, you must have great influence with daddy, and you must help me free Dick.

Silas. Who's Dick?

Moselle. One of the boys.

Silas (aside). Thought so. (Aloud.) Well, how can I help you free brother Dick?

Moselle. By inducing daddy to find the money.

Silas. Oh! Dick's in a scrape?

Moselle. Yes; and twenty thousand dollars will set him free. Daddy has it.

Silas (aside). So daddy's a big bonanza, as well as a bigamist.

Moselle. You see, Dick's accused of forgery; but he's innocent. A detective has secured him, and will take him back to-day, unless the money is found to reimburse the bank with what Richard Fairlee is supposed to have defrauded it.

Silas. Richard Fairlee? I've heard that name before.

Moselle. Alice Fairlee's brother.

Silas (aside). Heavings! Another tribe. Richard! – Ah! I have it.

(Enter Win-Kye, R. 1 E., with pail and brush.)

Win-Kye. All time walkee, paintee tlee, paintee lock —

Silas. Ah, the thief! Give me that paint. (Runs at Win-Kye, with outstretched arm. Win-Kye runs under it, and up C.)

Win-Kye. Not muchee. My can go all ligh'. Melican man chin-chin girly. Chinaman look out for paintee. (Exit up run.)

Silas. Stop, I say! He's off, and I'm after him. (Runs up and turns.) I'll look out for Dick by and by. Just now I must look out for paint. (Exit.)

Moselle. Ha, ha, ha! you'll have a long chase.

(Enter Agnes, from cabin.)

Agnes. Moselle, how can you laugh when this very day Dick leaves us?

Moselle. He's not gone yet; and just as surely as I believe in his innocence, just so sure am I that something will prevent his departure. Tom Carew has not been seen this morning, and he's not the man to desert a friend. Depend upon it, he is working for his release from that horrid detective.

(Enter Jerden, from cabin.)

Jerden. Meaning me. Thanks for your complimentary notice, and a thousand thanks for the hospitality which has given my prisoner and myself a good night's rest and a hearty breakfast. (Crosses to R.) Mr. Fairlee is packing up, and in a few moments you will be rid of us.

Moselle. Dick packing up? I'll stop that. (Exit into cabin.)

Jerden. Miss Fairlee, you accompany your brother, of course?

Agnes. No, sir: at his request I remain here.

Jerden. You remain? impossible! You will not suffer your brother to meet his trial without you by his side to comfort him?

Agnes. If he wishes it, yes.

Jerden. But this is unnatural, heartless —

Agnes. Sir?

Jerden. I beg your pardon; but your presence in New York would aid him greatly in establishing his innocence.

Agnes. Ah! you believe he is innocent?

Jerden. Return with us, and I will prove him so.

Agnes. Who are you?

Jerden. One who has long loved you, – who, though a detective, has wealth and power to set your brother free, and surround you with every luxury.

Agnes. Why, this is madness. I know you not but as one to be despised, a man-hunter and a thief-taker.

Jerden. Nay, but I can explain —

Agnes. Nothing to satisfy me that you are not a base wretch seeking to profit by the anxiety of a sister. I remain here.

Jerden. Go you must and shall, even if I have to arrest you as the accomplice of your brother.

Agnes. You would not dare. I have only to raise my voice, to bring to my side a score of manly fellows, who would swing you from a tree, and free your prisoner. Here law is justice, and war on women a crime.

Jerden. And yet I dare. Your flight so soon after your brother, your being found here together, are strong proof of your complicity in the crime.

Agnes. Another word, and I call.

(Jube creeps on from R. 2 E.)

Jerden (seizes her wrist). Silence, or – (Puts his hand round to his hip. Jube creeps close to him, and, as his hand comes round, pulls pistol out of Jerden's pocket, and puts it over his shoulder, pointing to his nose.)

Jube. Was you lookin' fer dis yer, boss?

Jerden (backing to C.). Fool! give me that pistol.

Jube. Yas, indeed, when Gabriel blows his trumpet in de mornin', but not dis year morning. (Shouts) Dandy Dick, dandy Dick, now's yer chance: hoof it, hoof it!

(Enter Dick from cabin, followed by Moselle.)

Dick. What's the matter, Jube?

Jube. Got de bead on de detect. Now's yer chance: hoof it —

Dick (crosses to Jube, and takes the pistol). Enough of this. I go with Jerden. (Gives pistol to Jerden.) Take your pistol. I might change my mind, and then you would need it.

Jube. Dat's jes' fool business. Put your mouf right into der lion's head.