Kitabı oku: «Nevada», sayfa 5

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.