Full text of "The Emperor Jones"

See other formats

Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at |http: //books .google .com/I

> 50^6 -3

lban>ar& Collcoe Xtbrar^

BOUGHT WITH MONEY
RECEIVED FROM THE

SALE OF DUPLICATES

THE EMPEROR JONES

DIFF'RENT

THE STRAW

PLAYS BY
EUGENE G. O'NEILL

1. Beyond the Horizon

2. The Moon of the Caribbees

And Six other plays of the Sea

3. The Emperor Jones; Diff*rent;

The Straw

In Preparaiion

4. Gold

5. The Ole Davil

THE , EMPEROR JONES

DIFF'RENT
THE STRAW

EUGENE G. O'NEILL

BONI AND LIVERIGHT

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

•.>-^ «;,. ^y-\

* I/' ^ (unTversItyI

LIE
JUN

# /

harvardN

INrVERSITYl
LIBRARY I
JUN 141944 I

w-d cl«.:/. 1*^ •;7" J^i' c ^ Ay • ^-^

' /

THE EMPEROR JONES

DIFFRENT

THE STRAW

AU rights reserved

Caution — Att persons are hereby warned that the
plays pubUehea in tJUs volume are fuUy protected
under the copyright laws of the United States and
aU foreign countries, and are subject to royalty, and
any one presenting any of said plays toithout the con-
sent of the Author or his recognized agents, will he
liable to the penalties by law provided. Applications
for the acting rights must be made to the Amerioat^
Play Company, Inc., SS West Jk2d St., New York City.

The Emperor Jones and DifTrent were first produced
by The Provincetown Players, 133 Macdougal Street,

New York City.

CONTENTS

PAGB

The Straw ••••••• 1

The Emperor Jones 1^9

Different- • • • 199

THE STRAW

CHARACTERS

Carmody

* his children
roR Gaynob,

i NiCHOLLS,

EN Carmody, BiU*8 eldest child
HEN Murray,

Howard, a nurse in training

Gilpin, superintendent of the Infirmary
:gr Stanton, of the Hill Farm Sanatorium
?OR SiMMS, his assistant
Sloan,
RS, a patient

Turner, matron of the Sanatorium

Bailey ^

Abner - Patients]

■N

iR Patients of the Sanatorium

Brennan.

characters are named in the order in which they

appear)

SCENES
ACT I

ScEVB I — ^The Kitchen of the Carmody Home

Evening.
ScsKE II — The Reception Room of the Infirmai

Hill Farm Sanatorimn — ^An Evening a Wc

Later.

ACT II

Scene I — ^Assembly Room of the Main Building
the Sanatorimn — ^A Morning Four Moni
Later.

Scene H — ^A Crossroads Near the Sanatorium
Midnight of the Same Day.

ACT III

An Isolation Room and Porch at the Sanatorium
An Afternoon Four Months Later.

Jime — 1910

ACT I

SCENE ONE

ScsNE 1 — 7^ kitchen of the Carmody home on the
outskirts of a manufacturing town in Connect^
icut. On the lefty forward^ the sink. Farther
hacky two windows looking out on the yard. In
the left cornery reary the icebox. Immediately
to the right of ity in the rear waUy a window
opening on the side porch. To the right of
thisy a dish closety and a door leading into the
hall where the main front entrance to the house
and the stairs to the floor above are situated.
On the righty to the reary a door opening on the
dining room. Farther forwardy the kitchen
range with scuttley wood hoXy etc. In the center
of the roomy a table with a red and white cover.
Four cane-bottomed chairs are pushed under
the table. In front of the stovey two batteredy
wicker rocking chairs. The floor is partly cov-
ered by linoleum strips. The walls are papered
a light cheerful color. Several old framed pic-
ture-supplement prints hang from naUs. Every^
thing has a clean, neatly-kept appearance. The

S THE STRAW

supper dishes are pUcd hi the smk ready for
washing. A dish pan of water simmers on the
stove.

It is about eight o'clock in the evening of a
bitter cold day in late February of the year
191$.

As the curtain rises. Bill Cabmodt
discovered sitting m a rocker by the stove, rem
ing a newspaper and smoking a blackened dag
pipe. He is a man of fifty, Jieavy-set and romid'
shouldered, with long muscular arms and_
rwoUen-^eined, hairy hands. His face is bony
and ponderous; his nose, short and squat
mouth large, thick-lipped and harsh; his com-
plexion mottled — red, purple-streaked,
freckled; his hair, short and stubby with a baM
spot on the crown. The expression of his smalt,
blue eyes is one of selfish cunning. His void
is loud and hoarse. He wears a flannel shirty
open at the neck, criss-crossed by red
penders; black, baggy trousers grey with 'dust;
muddy brogans.

His youngest daughter, Mary, is sitting ot
a chair by the table, front, turning over thi
pages of a picture book. She is a delicate, dark-
haired, blue-eyed, quiet little girl about eigM
years old.
Cahmody — [After watching the child's preoccupi
tion for a moment, in a tone of half-exasperated
amusement.'] Well, but you're the quiet one, surely!

THE STRAW 8

[Maet looks up at him with a sky tmUe, her eyet
■ifUI full of dreams.] Glory be to God, I'd Dot know
.: soul was alive in the room, barrin' myself, ^\^lat
!i it you're at, Mary, that there's not a word out of
you?
Maby — I'm looking at the pictures.
Cabmody — It's tbe dead spit and image of your
-i^ter, Eileen, you are, with your nose always in a
'lok; and you're like your mother, too, God rest her
Buul. [He crosses himself with pious unction and
Maby also does so.} It's Nora and Tom has the
1 1^ spirits in them like their father ; and Billy, too,
f be is a lazy shiftless divil — has the fightin' Car-
blood like me. You're a Cullcu like your
pther'a people. They always was dreamin' their
[He lights his pipe and shakes his head
t ponderous gravity.] Tliere's no good in too
my books, I'll tell you. It's out rompin' and
ipiayin' with your brother and aistcr you ought to be
•'^- your age, not carin' a fig for books. [Wifft a
^dtmce at the clock.] la that auld fool of a doctor
^Biyin' the night P If he had his wits about him
Hrd know in a jiffy 'tis only a cold has taken Eileen,
»nd give her the medicine. Run out in the hall,
Mary, and see if you hear him. He may have
^'leaked away by the front door.

-Maby — [Goes out into the kail, rear, and cornet
back.] He's upstairs. I heard him talking to Eileen.
,Cabmody — Close the door, ye little divil! There's
eezin' draught comin' in. [She does so and com£i

4 THE STRAW

back to her chair. Caemody continTies with a sneer.^
It's mad t am to be thinkin' he'd go without gettin*
his money — the like of a doctor! {^Angrily. '\ Rogues
and thieves they are, the lot of them, robbin' the
poor like us! Pre no use for their drugs at all.
They only keep you sick to pay more visits. I'd not
have sent for this bucko if Eileen didn't scare me
by faintin'.

Maey — l^Anxiouslf/.'] Is Eileen very sick, Papa?

Cabmody — {^Spitting — roughly.^ If she is, it's
her own fault entirely — ^weakenin' her health by
readin' here in the house. This'll be a lesson for her,
and for you, too. {IrritahlyJ] Put down that book
on the table and leave it be. I'll have no more readin'
in this house, or I'll take the strap to you!

Maey — \Layvng the book on the table.'] It's only
pictures.

Caemody — No back talk ! Pictures or not, it's all
the same mopin* and lazin' in it. \^After a pause —
morosely.] It's the bad luck I've been havin'
altogether this last year since your mother died.
Who's to do the work and look after Nora
and Tom and yourself, if Eileen is bad took
and has to stay in her bed? I'll have to get
Mrs. Brennan come look after the house. That
means money, too, and where's it to come from?
All that I've saved from slavin' and sweatin' in the
sun with a gang of lazy Dagoes'll be up the spout
in no time. [^Bitterly.] What a fool a man is to be
raisin' a raft of children and him not a millionaire !

[With luguhrioua telf-pity.'] Mary, dear, it's a black
curse God put on me when he took your mother just
■lien I needed her most, [Mahy commences to sob.
Caemodi- starts aiid looks at her angrUy.'] What
an.- you snifflln' atP

Maky — [^Tearfvlly.'] I was thinking — of Mama.

C'AajioDr — [Scomf'u!lff.'\ It's late you are with
your tears, and her cold in her grave for a year.
■^lop it, I'm tellin' you ! [Maky gulps back her soba.l

\TheTe is a noise of childish laughter and screams
from the street in front. The outside door is opened
luid slammed, footsteps pound along the hall. The
'I'lor in the rear is shoved open, and Noba and Tom
ii-thiu breathlessly/. Noka is a bright, vivacious, red-
hnired girl of eleven — pretty after an elfish, mi»-
chiofous fashion — light-hearted and robust,^

[Tom resembles Noea in disposition and appear-
"ice. A healthy, good-humored youngster with a
■Jiock of sandy hair. He is a year younger than
■^"(laA. They are followed into the room, a moment
■■iler, by their brother, Billy, who is evidently loftily
'■'"jotted with their antics. Billy is a fourteen-year-
!(/ replica of his father, whom he imitates even to the
I'oarte, domineering tone of voice.l

Caemody [^GrumpUy-l Ah, here you are, the lot
"f you. Shut that door after you ! What's the use
i" me spendin' money for coal if all you do is to
i'-'t the cold night in the room itself?

Noea — [Hopping over to him — teastngly."] Me
Hill Tom hod a race, Papa. I beat him. [She sticks

6 THE STRAW

her tongue out at her yownger brother.'] Slow poke !

Tom — ^You didn't beat me, neither !

NoEA — ^I did, too !

Tom — ^You did not! You didn't play fair. You
tripped me comin' up the steps. Brick-top ! Cheater!

Nora — [Flarmg up.] You're a liar! You stumbled
over your own big feet, clumsy bones! And I beat
you fair. Didn't I, Papa?

Caemody — [With a grtn."] You did, darlin', and
fair, too. [Tom slmks back to the chair in the rear
of table, stdking. Cabmody pats Nora's red hair with
delighted pride."] Sure it's you can beat the divil
himself !

Nora — [Sticks out her tongue again at Tom.']
See? Liar ! [She goes and perches on the table near
Mary who is starvng sadly in front of her.]

Carmody — [To BiLiiY — irritably,] Did you get
the plug for me I told you?

Billy — Sure. [He takes a plug of tobacco from
his pocket and hands it to his father. Nora slides
down off her perch and disappears, tmnoticed, v/nder
the table.]

Carmody — It's a great wonder you didn't forget
it — and me without a chew. [He bites off a piece
and tucks it into his cheek.]

Tom — [Suddenly clutching at his leg with a yeU.]
Ouch! Dam you! [He kicks frantically at some-
thing under the table, but Nora scrambles out at
the othef end, grinning.]

THE STRAW

CiBMODT — [AngrUj/.l Shut jour big mouth !
What is the matter with jou at ail?

Tom — l^ljuiignantly.l She pinched me — hard as
she could, too — and look at her laugliin' !

NoBA — [Hopping on the table again.] Cry-baby!

II owed you one.
Tom — I'll fix you, I'll tell Eileen, wait 'n' see !
> Nora — Tattle-tale ! I don't care. Eileen's sick,
k Tom — That's why you dast do it. You dasn't if
mi was up, I'll get even, you bet!
mCAsmoDY^^Exaaperated.'] Shut up your noise!
m up to bed, the two of you, and no more talk, and
you go with them, Mary.

N'oBA — [Giving a quick tug at Mary's hair.]
Come on, Mary. Wake up.
Mart — Ow! [She begins to cry.]
Caemodt — [Raising his voice furiouslTi.] Hush
vour noise, you soft, weak thing, you ! It's nothin*
hut blubberin' you do be doin' all the time. [He
ttaiu}s up threateninglif.] Ill have a moment's
pence, I will ! Off to bed with you before I get the
^Irap! It's crazy mad you all get the moment
Eileen's away from you. Go on, now! [They scurry
out of the rear door.] And be quiet or I'll be up to
Tou!

Nora — [Sticks her head back in the door.] Can

I'lay good-night to Eileen, papa?

] Carmodt — No. The doctor's with her yet. [Then

'» hastUjf.] Yes, go in to her, Nora. It'll drive

■oself out of the house maybe, bad cess to him, and

Tire STRAW

him staj'in' half the night. [Noha waits to hear «
more but darts back; shutting the door behind ket
Billy takes the chair in front of the table. Cakmod'
aits down again with a groan-^ The rheumatics ai
in my leg again. [Shakes his head.~\ If Eileen's i
bed long those brats'U have the house down.

Billy— Eileen ain't sick very bad, is she?

Caemody — [EojtH^.] It's a cold only she hati
l^Then mournfvVg.'\ Your poor mother died of th<
same. [^Billy loohs awed.^ Ara, well, it's God's will
I suppose, but where the money'll come from, X
dunno. [TTff/i a disparaging glance at his soni_
They'll not be raisin' your wages soon, I'll be boundi

Billy \_SurlUif.'] Naw. The old boss never ^toI
no one a raise, 'less he has to. He's a. tight-wad fo
fair.

Cakmody — [^^iU scanning him reith contempt
Five dollars a week — for a strappin* lad the like (
you ! It's shamed you should be to own up to it.
divil of a lot of good it was for me to go again
Eileen's wish and let you leave off your schoolin* tl
year lite you wanted, thinkin' the money you'd eal
at work would help with the house.

Billy — Aw, goin' to school didn't do me no gooi
The teachers was all down on me. I couldn't let
nothin' there.

CAHMonY — [JHsgiistedly.l Nor any other plao
I'm thinkin', you're that thick. [There is a noise fro
the stairs in the haU.'\ Whisht! It's the doctor coi
in' down from Eileen. What'll he say, I wo&dt

fTBTE STRAW

[Thf door in th-e rear U opened and Doctor Gaynor
eaten. He is a itout, hold, middle-aged man, force-
fd of tpeech, who in the case of patients of the Cak-
' class dictates rather than advites. Caruodv
wbpts a whining tOTie.^ Aw, Doctor, and how's
a now? Have you got her cured of the weakness?
IGavkoh*— [Z)o« not antzeer this but comes foT-
iffd into the room holding out two slips of paper —
mtatoriall^.l Here are two prcscriptiona that'll
we to he filled immediately.

JCarmody — [Froipningf.] You take them, Billy,
I rouDd to the drug store. [Gatnok. hands
n to BrLLT.]

rLLT — Give mc the money, then.
Caemodt — \^Reaches down into Ms pants pocket
'cilh a sigh.^ How much will tliey come to, Doctor?
^^ Gayn-ok — About a dollar, I guess.
^H|Cakmodt — \^Protestvngly.~\ A dollar! Sure it's
^^■lensive medicines you're givin' her for a bit of a
^^Bd. l^He meets the doctor's cold glance of con-
^^Hlpf and he wUta — gmmblingly, as he peels a dollar
^^p off a small roll and gives it to Billy.] Bring
I tact the change — if there is any. And none of your
'ricla, for I'll stop at the drug store myself tomor-
_fpw and ask the man how much it was.

SiLLy — Aw, what do you think I amP {He takes
w KQvey and goes out."]

IT — [Grudgingly.^ Take a chair. Doctor,
e what's wrong with Eileen.

10 THE STRAW

Gatkob — {^Seating himself by the table—'
gr(voelyJ\ Your daughter is very seriously ill.

Cabmody — {Irritably.'] Aw, Doctor, didn't I know
you'd be sayin' that, anyway !

Gaynob — [Ignoring this remark — coMLy."] Your
daughter has tuberculosis of the lungs.

Cabmody — {With puzzled awe,"] Too-ber-c'losis?

Gaynob — Consumption, if that makes it plainer
to you.

Cabmody — {With dazed terror — after a pause.l
Consumption? Eileen? {With sudden anger.] What
lie is it you're tellin' me?

Gaynob — {Icily.] Look here, Carmody I I'm not
here to stand for your insults!

Cabmody — {Bewilder edly.] Don't be angry, now,
at what I said. Sure I'm out of my wits entirely.
Eileen to have the consumption! Ah, Doctor, sure
you must be mistaken !

Gaynob — There's no chance for a mistake, I'm
sorry to say. Her right lung is badly affected.

Cabmody — {Desperately.] It's a bad cold only,
maybe.

Gaynob — {Curtly.^ Don't talk nonsense. [Cab-
mody groans* Gaynob continues authoritatvoely.]
She will have to go to a sanatorium at once. She
ought to have been sent to one months ago. The
girl's been keeping up on her nerve when she should
have been in bed, and it's given the disease a chance
to develop. {Casts a look of mdignamt scorn at
Cabmody who is sitting staring at the floor with an

THE STRAW 11

ex'premon of angry stupor on hu face.'] It's a won-
der to me you didn't see the condition she was in
and force her to take care of herself. Why, the
girl's nothing but skin and bone !

Caamodt — l^With vague fury.] Gk)d blast it!

Gaynok — ^No, your kind never realizes things till
the crash comes — usually when it's too late. She
kept on doing her work, I suppose — ^taking care of
her brothers and sisters, washing, cooking, sweep-
ing, looking after your comfort — ^worn out — ^when
she should have been in bed — and — [He gets to his
feet with a harsh laugh.] But what's the use of talk-
ing? The damage is done. We've got to set to work
to repair it at once. I'll write tonight to Dr. Stan-
ton of the Hill Farm Sanatorium and find out if he
has a vacancy. And if luck is with us we can send
her there at once. The sooner the better.

Cabmody — [His face growvng red with rage.]
Is it sendin' Eileen away to a hospital you'd be?
[Exploding.] Then you'll not! You'll get that
notion out of your head damn quick. It's all nonsense
you're stuffin' me with, and lies, makin' things out
to be the worst in the world. I'll not believe a word
of Eileen having the consumption at all. It's doc-
tors' notions to be always lookin' for a sickness
that'd kill you. She'll not move a step out of here,
and I say so, and I'm her father!

Gaynoe — [Who has been staring at him with
contempt — coldly angry.] You refuse to let your
daughter go to a sanatorium?

1« THE STRAW

Cabmody — ^I do.

Gaynor — [Threateninglff.'] Then 111 have to
port her case to the Society for the Prevention of
Tuberculosis of this county, and tell them of your
refusal to help her.

Cabmody — \_Wavering a bit.'] Report all you like,
and be damned to you!

Gaynoe — l^Ignoring the interruption — knprei-
sively.'] A majority of the most influential men of
this city are back of the Society. Do you know that?
[GrtmZy.] We'll find a way to move you, Carmody,
if you try to be stubborn.

Caemody — l^ThorotigKly frightened but still pro-
testing.'] Ara, Doctor, you don't see the way of it at
all. If Eileen goes to the hospital, who^s to be takin'
care of the others, and mindin' the house when Tm
off to work?

Gaynoe — ^You can easily hire some woman.

Caemody — \^At once furious again.] Hire? D*
you think I'm a millionaire itself?

Gaynoe — {^Contemptuously.] That's where the
shoe pinches, eh? [In a rage,] I'm not going to waste
any more words on you, Carmody, but I'm damn
well going to see this thing through ! You might as
well give in first as last.

Caemody — [WaUmg.] But where's the money
comin' from?

Gaynoe — [Brutcdly.] That's your concern. Don't
lie about your poverty. You've a steady wdl paid
job, and plenty of money to throw away on drunken

prees, PU bet. The weekly fee at the Hill Farm is
:ily SCTen dollars. You can easily afford that —
';e price of a few rounds of drinks.
. Cakmodv — Seven dollars I And Pll have to pay a
lan to come in — and the four of the children
r their heads off! Glory be to God, I'll not have
saved for me old age— and then it's the
nr house !

JBatnok — [Curtly.l Don't talk nonsense!
tsuoDY — ^Ah, doctor, it's the truth I'm tellin*

Watnok — ^Well, perhaps I can get the Society to

J half for jour daughter- — if you're really as hard
Ikasyou pretend. They're willing to do that where
li §eenia necessary.

Caimodt — [B right ening-l Ah, Doctor, thault
jou.

GiTNoa — [Abruptly.'] Then it's all settled?

CiiiuovT~~[Grudgingli/ — trying to make the
bat of it.] I'll do my best for Eileen, if it's needful
—and you'll not be tellin' them people about it at
all. Doctor?

GArsoK — ^Not unless you force me to.

Cakmody— And they'll pay the half, surely?

Gavnor^ — I'll see what I can do — for your daugh-
''[■'s sake, not yours, understand!

Cabmody — God bless you, Doctor ! [Grumft-
'*n^/^.] It's the whole of it they ought to be payin',
I'm tfainkin', and them with sloos of money. 'Tis

14 THE STRAW

them builds the hospitals and why should they be >
wantin' the poor like me to support them?

Gaynor — [Disgust edly.l Bah! \^Ahruptltf.'] VOl
telephone to Doctor Stanton tomorrow morning.
Then I'll know something definite when I come to
see your daughter in the afternoon.

Carmodt — {^Darkly.'] You'll be comin' again to-
morrow? l^Half to himself,'] Leave it to the likes
of you to be drainin' a man dry. [Gaynor has gone i
out to the hall in rear and does not hear this last
remark. There is a loud knock from the outside
door. The Doctor comes back into the room carry' :
ing his hat and overcoat.] \

Gaynor — There's someone knocking. i

Carmody— Who'll it be? Ah, it's Fred Nicholls,' j
maybe. [In a low voice to Gaynor who has started \

to put on his overcoat.] Eileen's young man, Doc- '
tor, that she's engaged to marry, as you might say.
Gaynor — [Thoughtfully.] Hmm — yes — she
spoke of him. [As another knock sounds Carmodt
hurries to the rear. Gaynor, after a moments t»-
decisionj takes off his overcoat again and sits down.
A moment later Carmody re-enters followed hy ',
Fred Nicholas, who has left his overcoat and hat
in the hallway. Nicholls is a young fellow of
twenty-threej stockUy huilt, fair-haired^ handsome hi
a commonplace, conventional mould. His manner is
obviously an attempt at suave gentility; he has an
easy, taking smile and a ready laugh, hut there is a
petty, calculating expression in his small, ohserdrng^

THE STRAW 15

Hue eye9. His weU-fltting, readymade clothes are
earefvUy pressed. His whole get-up suggests an at-
titude of Tnamrdbout'-smallrtown complacency.^

Cabmody — [As they enter, 1 I had a mind to
phone to your house but I wasn't wishful to disturb
you, knowin' you'd be comin' to call tonight.

NiCHOiiLs — [With disappointed concern."] It's
nothing serious, I hope.

Cabmodt — \Grumhlvngly.'\ Ah, who knows?
Here's the doctor. You've not met him?

Nicholas — [Politely^ looking at Gaynoe who in-
clines his head stiffly,"] I haven't had the pleasure.

Of course I've heard

Carmody — ^It's Doctor Gaynor. This is Fred
Nicholls, Doctor. [The two men shake hands with
conventional pleased-to-meet-yous.] Sit down, Fred,
that's a good lad, and be talkin' to the Doctor a
moment while I go upstairs and see how is Eileen.
She's all alone up there.

Nicholas — Certainly, Mr. Carmody. Go ahead
*-and tell her how sorry I am to learn she's under
the weather.
Carmody — ^I will so. [He goes out.]
Gaynor — [After a pause in which he is studying
K1CHOL.1-S.] Do you happen to be any relative to
the Albert Nicholls who is superintendent over at the
Downs Manufacturing Company?

Nicholls — [Smiling.] He's sort of a near rela-
tive — my father.
Gaynor — ^Ah, yes?

16 THE STRAW

NicHOixs — {^With satigfcu:tion.'\ I work for the
Downs Company myself — ^bookkeeper

Gaynor — ^Miss Carmody — the sick girl upsti
she had a position there also, didn't she, before her
mother died?

NicHOixs — ^Yes. She had a job as stenographer
for a time. When she graduated from the business
college course — ^I was already working at the Downs
— and through my father's influence — ^you under-
stand. [Gaynor nods curtly.'] She was getting on
finely, too, and liked the work. It's too bad — her
mother's death, I mean— forcing her to give it up
and come home to take care of those kids.

Gaynor — It's a damn shame. That's the main
cause of her breakdown.

NiCHOLLS — l^Frozcning.l I've noticed she's been
looking badly lately. So that's the trouble? Well,
it's all her father's fault — and her own, too, be-
cause whenever I raised a kick about his making
a slave of her, she always defended him. \^With a
quick glance at the Doctor — in a confidential tone.1
Between us, Carmody's as selfish as they make 'em. if
you want my opinion.

Gaynor — [With a growl.] He's a hog on two
legs.

Nicholas — [With a gratified smile.] You bet!
[With a patronizing air.] I hope to get Eileen away
from all this as soon as — ^things pick up a little.
[Making haste to explain his connection mth the
dubious household.] Eileen and I have gone around

THE STRAW 17.

together for years — ^went to Grammar and High
School together — ^in ^different classes, of course^
She's really a corker — ^very different from the rest
of the family you've seen — ^like her mother* She's
really educated and knows a lot — ^used to carry off
aU the prizes at school. My folks like her awfully
welL Of course, they'd never stand for — ^him.

Gaynor — ^You'll excuse my curiosity — I've a good
reason for it — ^but you and Miss Carmody are en-
gaged, aren't you? Carmody said you were.

NiCHOLiiS — {^Embarrassed.'] Why, yes, in a way
— ^but nothing definite — ^no official announcement or
anything of that kind. It's all in the future. We
have to wait, you know. \_With a sentimental smile.'}
We've been sort of engaged for years, you might
say. It's always been sort of understood between us.
[He laughs awkwardly.']

GAYNoa — [Gravely.] Then I can be frank with
you. I'd like to be because I may need your help.
I don't put much faith in any promise Carmody
makes. Besides, you're bound to know anyway.
She'd tell you.

NiCHOLLs — [^ look of apprehension coming over
his face.] Is it — about her sickness?

Gaynor — ^Yes.

Nicholas — ^Then — ^it's serious?

Gaynor — ^It's pulmonary tuberculosis — consump-
tion«
NicHOLLS — [Stun/ned.] Consumption? Good

18 THE STRAW

heavens! [After a dazed pause — lamely. '\ Are you
sure, Doctor?

Gaynor — ^Positive. [Nicholls stares at him wifh '
vaguely frightened eyes.l It's had a good start —
thanks to her father's blind selfishness — but let's ;
hope that can be overcome. The important thing j
is to ship her ofi^ to a sanatoriiun immediately. Car- j
mody wouldn't hear of it at first. However, I man-
aged to bully him into consenting ; but I don't trust \
his word. That's where you can be of help. It's |
up to you to convince him that it's imperative she j
be sent away at once — ^f or the safety of those around j
her as well as her own. }

Nicholas — [Confusedly. "] I'll do my best, doctor, i
[As if he couldn't yet believe his ears — shuddering.'] ^
Good heavens ! She never said a word about — being i
so ill. She's had a cold. But, Doctor, — do you \
think this sanatorium wiU ?

Gaynor — [With hearty hopefulness.] Most cer-
tainly. She has every chance. The Hill Farm has «j
a really surprising record of arrested cases — as good
as any place in the country. Of course, she'll never
be able to live as carelessly as before, even after the :
most favorable results. She'll have to take care of
herself. [Apologetically.'] I'm telling you all this ;
as being the one most intimately concerned. I don't
count Carmody, You are the one who will have to ^
assume responsibility for her welfare when she re- ^
turns to everyday life.

NicHOLLs — [Answering as if he were merely talk--

THE STRAW 19

ing to acreen the thougktt in hit mind.1 Yes — cer-
tainly — . Where is this sanatorium. Doctor — ^very
far away?

Gaynob — Half an hour by train to the town. The
unatorium is two miles out on the hills — a nice
drive. You'll be able to sec her whenever you've a
day off. It's a pleasant trip.

NicHOLi-s — [A look of horrified Tealization hat
been creeping into his ei/es."] You said — -Eileen
ought to be sent away — for the sake of those around
her ?

GArxoE — That's obvious. T. B. is extremely con-
tagious, you must know that. Yet I'll bet she's been
fondling and kissing those brothers and sisters of
htrs regardless. [Nicholls fidgets unea»Uy on his
e&air.] And look at this house sealed tight against
the fresh air! Not a window open an inch! [Fum-
wff.] That's what we're up against in the fight with
T,B, — a total ignorance of the commonest methods
of prevention

KicHOLLs — l^Hii eyes shiftily avoiding the doc-
tor's face,'\ Then the kids might have gotten it — ^by
tiesing Eileen?

Gaynor — It stands to reason that's a conmion
means of communication.

Nicholls— [T>r?/ much shaken.'] Yes, I suppose
itmustbe. But that's terrible, isn't it? IWitk sud-
den volvbility, evidently extremely anxious to wind
Up ihii conversation and conceal his thoughts from
Gatsos.] I'll promise you, Doctor, I'll tell Car-

«0 THE STRAW |

mody straight what's what. Hell pay attention to;
me or I'll know the reason why. ^

Gaynor — [Getting to his feet and picking «p Mi '^
overcoat.'] Good boy! You've probably saved me a j
disagreeable squabble. I won't wait for Carmody..).
The sight of him makes me lose my temper. TeQ u
him I'll be back tomorrow with definite information)^
about the sanatorium.

■da

Nicholas — [Helping him on with his overcoaip..
anaiotLS to have him go.] All right, Doctor.

Gaynor — [Puts on his hat.] And do your best to.
cheer the patient up when you talk to her. Give her -
confidence in her ability to get wetl. That's half the ^
battle. And she'll believe it, coming from you.

NicHOixs — [HastUy.] Yes, yes, I'll do all I csau

Gaynor — [Turns to the door and shakes r
Nicholas' hand sympathetically. ] And don't tafc^ '
it to heart too much yourself. There's every hope^
remember that. In six months she'll come back t(^
you her old self again.

Nicholas — [Nervously.] It's hard on a fellow— ;
so suddenly — ^but I'll remember — and — [dbruptly\ <
Good-night, Doctor.

Gaynor — Good-night. [He goes out. The <mUf
door is heard shutting behind him. NicHOLiiS closes
the door J rear^ and comes hack and sits in the chck
in front of table. He rests his chin on his hands a/ni
stares before him^ a look of desperate^ frightened
calculation coming into his eyes. Carmody it
heard clumping heavily down the stairs. A Tnoment h

THE STRAW 91

tater he enters. Ui» expression is glum and tr-
ntated.li

Carmodt — [^Coming forward to his chair by the
Jlope.] Has he gone away?

NicHOLLS — \_Tuming on him urith a look of re-
jm/*ion.] Yes, He said to tell jou he'd be back to-
morrow with definite information — about the sana-
'i>riiini business.
Carmody — l^Darkly.l Oho, he did, did he?
tajbe 111 surprise him. I'm thinkin' it's lyin' he
^about Eileen's sickneES, and her lookin' as fresh
I daisy with the high color in her cheeks when
7 her DOW.
iNicHoiLs— [/mpflficnfiZi/.] That's silly, Mr. Car-
idy. Gajnor knows his business. [After a mo-
It'i hentation.l He told me all about Eileen's
leaa.

kKMODT — [Resentfully.^ Did he now, the auld
ikey I Small thanks to him to be tellin' our secrets
I the town.

NicHOLLS — [Exasperated.^ I didn't want to
Ic^urn your affairs. He only told me because you'd

S[ and Eileen were engaged. You're the one who
elling — se cr et 9 ,
KMODY — [Irritated,'] Ara, don't be talkin'!
'a no secret at all with the whole town watchin'
t-ueen and you spoonin' together from the time you
"'as kids.

N1CH01.1.B — [Vindictively. 1 Well, the whole town
- liable to find out . [He checks himielf-l

«s

THE STRAW

Cabmody — [Too absorbed m hU own troublei t
notice this threat.^ To HlII with the town and a
in it! I've troubles enough of my own. So he to!
you he'd send Eileen away to the hospital? I've h
a mind not to let hira — and let him try to make n
[With a fromn.1 But Eileen herself says she
wantin' to go, now. [AngrUi/.^ It's all thi
divil's notion he put in her head that the children'
be catchin' her sickness that makes her willin' to g

NiCHOLLs — [iri(& a superior air.] From what 1
told me, I should say it was the only thing fo
Eileen to do if she wants to get well quickly. [Spit
fvlly.'\ And I'd certainly not go against Gayno
if I was you. He told me he'd make it hot for i
if you did. He will, too, you can bet on that. Her
that kind.

Carmodt- — [Worriedly.'] He's a divil. But wh(
can he do— him and his Sasiety? I'm her father.

NicHOLLS — [Se^g Carmody's uneasiness mi
revengeful satisfaction.^ Oh, he'll do what he say
don't worry ! You'll make a mistake if you thin
he's bluffing. It'd probably get in all the papei
about you refusing. Everyone would be down i
you. [As a last jab — spitefully.] You might eve
lose your job over it, people would be so sore.

Cabmody — [Jumping to his feet.] Ah, divil tall
him! Let him send her where he wants, then. I'
not be sayin' a word.

NicHOLLS — [As an afterthought,] And, honestl]
Mr. Carmody, I don't see how you can object for

THE STRAW 23

rod — after he's told you it's absolutely necessary

' r Eileen to go away. [Seeing Cakmodt'a shaken

iindition, he finishes boldly.'] You've some feeling

±Ju your own daughter, haven't you? You'd be a

^^k father if you hadn't I

^^Rabmody- — [Apprehensively,] Whisht! She might
I tear you. But you're right. Let her do what she's
»iihf ul to get well soon.

V1CK01.1.S — [Complacently — feeling his duty in
>he matter well done.] That's the right spirit. I
i.neff you'd see it that way. And you and I'll do
ill we can to help her. [He gets to Jtis feet.] Well,

i guess 111 have to go. Tell Eileen

Carwodt — You're not goin'? Sure, EOeen is

in her clothes to come down and have a look

l[jou. She'll be here in a jiffy. Sit down now, and

t for her.
"Nicholls — [SuddeTdy panic-stricken by the
} proipect of facing ker.] No — no — I can't stay — I
[ nnly came for a moment— I've got an appointment
—honestly. Besides, it isn't right for her to be up,
file's too weak. It'll make her worse. You should
luve told her. [The door in the rear is opened and
Eileen enters. She is just over eighteen. Her wavy
I'nts of dark hair is parted in the middle and combed
'"if on her forehead, covering her ears, to a knot at
>he back of her head. The oval of her face is spoiled
I'll a long, rather heavy, Irish jaw contrasting with
f delicacy of her other features. Her eyes are
rge arid blue, confident in their compelling candor

THE STRAW

and iweetneta; her lipi, fuU and red, half-open otn
strong even teeth, droop at the corners inti
preision of wistful sadnest; her clear complexion i
unnaturally itriking in its contrasting colors,
and white; her fgure is slight and undeveloped,
wears a plain black drest with a bit of white at tht
neck and wrists. She stands looking appealin
NicHOLLS who avoids her glance. Her eyes have t
startled, stunned expression as if the doctor's verdia
were still in her ears."]

Eileen — [Faintly — forcing a smile. ] G«
evening, Fred. [Her eyes search hit fd
anxiously.^

NiCHOLLs — l^Confusedly.J Hello, Eileen. Fm|

sorry to -. [Clumsily trying to cover up hit c

fusion, he goes over and leads her to a chair.^ Ym
must sit down. You've got to take care of youradT
You never ought to have gotten up tonight.

Eileen — [Sits down.^ I wanted to talk to yonj
[^She raises her face with a pitifid smile. NicHOU
hurriedly moves back to his own chair.']

NicHOLLs — [Almost brusquely.] I could hfl
talked to you from the hall. You're silly to i
chances just now. [Eileen's eyes show her hurt ]
his tone.]

CA.nMODY~^[Seeing his chance — hastily.] You'B
be stayin' a while now, Fred? I'U take a walk down ]
the road. I'm necdin' a drink to clear my wits. [Hi
goes to the door in rear.]

THE STTlAW

[Reproachfullif.'] You won't be loDg,
fmher? And please don't — you know.
tiBMODT — [^Exasperated. '\ Sure who wouldn't
. gut drunk with all the sorrows of the world piled
on him? [He stamps out, A moment later the
nt$ide door bangs behtTid him. Eileen sight.
NicHOLLs walks up and down with his eyes on the

NicHOLLs — [Furious at Cakmody for having left
Urn in this situation.^ Honestly, Eileen, your father
is the limit. I don't see how you stand for him. He's

most seMsh

,EEN — [Gentl^.l Sssh ! You mustn't, Fred. He's
blame. He just doesn't understand.
'icuoLi-s snorts disdainfully.'] Don't! Let's not
about him now. Wc won't have many more
,ff«nings together for a long, long time. Did Father

the Doctor tell you \_Slu; falters.]

iCHOLLS — [Not looking at her— glumly.] Every-
ig there was to tell, I guess.

Eileen — [Hastening to comfort him.] You
|i:!stn't worry, Fred. Please don't! It'd make it so
"inch worse for me if I thought you did. I'll be all
-s;ht. Ill do exactly what they tell me, and in a few
imths I'll be back so fat and healthy you won't

NiCHOLLs — [Lamely.] Oh, there's no doubt of
Ijat. No one's worrying about your not getting well
quick.
En^EN — It won't be long. We can write often,

THE STRAW

and it isn't far awaj. You can come out and see
every Sunday — if you want to.

NiCHOLLs — [Hastili/.] Of course I will!

Eileen — [Looking at hU face aearckinglt/.] Wl
do you act so funny P Why don't you sit dowi
here, by me? Don't you want to?

N'icHOtLs— [Draawi^ up a chair by hert
flushing guHtily.l I — I'm all bawled up, Eileen,
don't know what I'm doing.

EiLEEK — \Putting her hand on his knee.^ Po
Fred! I'm so sorry I have to go. I didn't want
at first. I knew how hard it would be on Father a
the kids — especially little Mary. [Her voice tremU
a 6t(.] And then the doctor said if I stayed I'd
putting them all in danger. He even ordered i
not to kiss them any more. [She bites her lips to I
strain a sob — then coughs, a soft, husky cou^
NiCHOLLS shrinks away from her to the edge of )
chair, his eyes shifting nervously with fright. Eiu
continues gently.l So I've got to go and get i
don't you see?

NiCHOLLS — [JVetting his dry lips.l Yes — ^i(
better.

Eileen — [Sadly.'] I'll miss the kids so mm
Taking care of them has meant so much to me sin
Mother died. [TFi(ft a half-sob she suddenly throi
her arms about his neck and hides her face on I
shoulder. He shudders and fights against az
to push her away.^ But I'll miss you most of (
Fred. ^She lifts her lips towards his, expectir^

THE STRAW n

kits. He seema about to kit* her — then averti his
face with a shrinking movement, pretending he hasn't
seen. Eij-ezn's eyes grow wide with horror. She
throws herself back into her own chair, staring ac-
cv-singly at Nicholls. She speaks diokingly.]
Fred! Whj — whj didn't you kiss — what is it? Are
you — afraid? \^With a moaning sound.^ Oooh!

NicHoiLs — [Goaded by this accusation into a dis-
play of manhood, seizes her fiercely by the arms.^
No! WTiat — what d'you mean? \_He tries to kits
her but she hides her face-l

Eileen — [/» a muffled voice of hysterical self-
accusation, pushing his head away.l No, no, you
mustn't ! I was wrong. The doctor told you not to,
didn't he? Please don't, Fred! It would be aw-
I iul if anything happened to you — through me.
I [NicHOLi.8 gives up his attempts, recalled to caution
hy her words. She raises her face and tries to force
a smile through her tears."] But you can kiss me on
the forehead, Fred. That can't do any harm. [His
face crimson, he does so. She laughs hysterically.]
It seems so silly — being kissed that way — by you.
[She gulps back a sob and continued to attempt to
jofce.] I'll have to get used to it, won't I?

[Curtain FaUs.1

ACT I

SCENE TWO

Scene — The reception room of the Infirmary
large^ high-ceUinged room painted white^ s
oUedf hardwood floor. In the left waU^ forwc
a row of four windows. Farther back, the m
entrance from the driveway^ and anot
window. In the rear wall left^ a glass partii
looking out on the sleeping porch. A row
white hedsy with the faces of patients hai
peeping out from wnder pUes of heavy I
clothes^ can he seen. To the right of this pa
tion, a bookcase, and a door leading to the J
past the patients* rooms. Farther right,
other door opening on the examining room,
the right waU, rear, a door to the office. Fart
forward, a row of windows. In front of
windows, a long dining table mth chairs,
the left of the table, toward the center of
room, a chimney with two open fireplaces, fac
left and right. Several wicker armchairs
placed arovmd the fireplace on the left in wl
a cheerful wood fire is crackling. To the lef\

THE STRAW

center, a rouiid reading arid writing table with
a green-shaded electric lamp. Other electric
lights are in brackets around the walls. Eaty
chairs stand near the table which is stacked
Kith magazines. Rocking chairs are placed here
and there about the room, near the windows, etc.
A Yictrola stands near the left wall, forward.

It is nearing eight o'clock of a cold evening
about a week later.

At the rise of the curtain Stephen Muhbat
w discovered sitting in a chair in front of the
fireplace, left. Muerat is thirty years old— a
taU, slender, rather wiusual looking fellow loith
a pale face, sunken under high cheek bones,
Uaed about the eyes and mouth, jaded and worn
for one stiU so yowng. His intelligent, large
hazel eyes have a tired, dispirited expression in
repose, but can quicken instantly with a con-
cealment mechanism of mocking, careless hrnnor
whenever his inner privacy is threatened. His
large mouth aids this process of protection
by a quick change from its set apathy to a
cheerful grin of cynical good nature. He gives
off the impression of being somehow dissatisfied
with himself but not yet embittered enough by
it to take it out on others. His manner, as re-
vealed by his speech — nervous, inquisitive, alert
— seems more an acquired quality than any part
of his real nature. He stoops a trifle, giving
hint a slightly round-shouldered appearance.

so THE STRAW

He is dreised in a tkabbtf dark suit, baggy t
the knees. He is staring into the fire, dreamini
an open book lying unheeded on the arm of hi
chair. The Victrola is whinmg out the lat
strains of Dvorak's Humoresque. In the door
way to the office. Miss Gilpin stands talking ta
Miss Howard. The former is a slight, middls-
aged woman mth black hair, and a strong, in-
telligent face, its expression of resolute efft
ciency softened and made kmdly by her tparm,
sympathetic grey eyes. Miss Howard is taUf
slender and blond — decidedly pretty and ]
vokingly conscious of it, yet with a certain air
of seriousness underlying her apparent frivot^
ity. She is twenty years old. The elder v
is dressed in the aU white of a full-fledged nurse.
Miss Howard wears the grey-blue uniform of
one still in training. The record peters out.
MtiREAT sigris with relief but makes tk) move ti
get up and stop the grinding needle.
HowAED hurries across to the machine. Mifl
Gilpin goes back into the office.

Miss Howasd — [Takes off the record, gtanek
at MuRBAY zvith amused vexation.'] It's a woodt
you wouldn't stop this machine grinding itself 1
hits, Mr. Murray.

Murray — [ With a smile. ] I was hoping the dan
thing would bust, [Miss Howard sniffs.

ng the dan 19
s. Mcrbas P

I THE STRAW 91

grim at her iea»ingl^.'\ It keeps you from talking
to me. That's the real music.

Miss Howakd — [Comes over to ku chair laugh-
ing.^ It's easy to see you've got Irish in you. Do
you know what I think? I think you're a natural
born kidder. All newspaper reporters are like that,
I've heard.

McREAi- — You wrong me terribly, [Then frown-
ing.^ And it isn't charitable to remind me of my
job. I hoped to forget all about it up here.

MiBS HowAUD — \_SurpTised.'\ I think it's great
ttj be able to write, I wish I could. You ought to
he proud of it.

MtTBEAT — [GluTuly.^ I'm not. You can't call it
writing — not what I did — small town stuff. [Chavg-
ing the subject.'\ But I wanted to ask you some-
thing. Do you know when I'm to be moved away to
llie shacks?

Miss Howard — In a few days, I guess. Don't be
impatient. [MnaEAY grunts and moves nervously on
hit chair.l What's the matter? Don't you like us
here at the Infirmary?

Mlehat — [Smiling.^ Oh — you — yes! [Then ser-
ioutly.'l I don't care 'or the atmosphere, though.
[He reaves his hand toward the "partition looking out
on the porch.'l All those people in bed out there on
the porch seem so sick. It's depressing. I can't
do anything for them — and — it makes me feel so
is,
8 HowAttD — Well, it's the rules, you know. All

THE smAW^

the patients have to come here first until Docti
Stanton finds out whether they're well enough to
sent out to the shacks and cottages. Aud rememl
jou're a patient just like the ones in bed out there
even if you are up and about.

Mdshat — I know it. But I don't feci as I wei
— really sick like them.

Miss Howaed — [H^wrf^.] None of them
either.

Ml-rbay — [After a momenVt rejection — cjfn
cally.l Yea, I suppose it*a that pipe dream tlu
keeps us all going, eh?

Miss Howaed— Well, you ought to be thankfnl
You're very lucky, if you knew it. [^Lowering Afl
voiceSl Shall I tell you a secret? I've seen you
chart and you've no cause to worry. Doctor Stao
ton joked about it. He said you were too uninter
esting — there was so little the matter with you,

Murray — [Pleased but pretending indifference'
Humph ! He's original in that opinion.

Ifiss Howard — I know it's hard you're being '
only one up the week since you've been here, with
one to talk to; but there's another patient due
day. Maybe she'll be well enough to be aroimd w
yon. [With a quick glance at her wnat watcli,'\ S
can't be coming unless she got in on the last train,

MtTRRAY — [Interestedly.'] It's a she, eh?

Miss HowAED — Yes.

MtTREAT — [Grinning provokinglyJ] Young"

Miss Howaed — Eighteen, I believe. [Seeing

THE STRAW 88

prill — irt^^ feigned pique."] I suppose youll be ask-
ing if she's pretty next ! CMi, you men are all alike,
dck or .well. Her name is Carmody, that's the only
other thing I know. So there !

Mu&BAT — Carmody ?

Miss Howaed — Oh, you don't know her. She's
from another part of the state from your town.

Miss Giltin— [Appearing in the office doorway.]
Miss Howard.

Miss Howard — ^Yes, Miss Gilpin. [In an aside to
MuBBAT as she leaves him.] It's time for those hor-
rid diets. l^She hurries back into the office. . Mub-
lAT stares into the fire. Miss Howabd reappears
from the office and goes out by the door to the holly
rear. Carriage wheels are heard from the driveway
w front of the house on the left. They stop. After
\ a pause there is a sharp rap on the door and a bell
\ rings insistently. Men^s muffled voices are heard in
\ argument. Mubeat turns curiously in his chair. Miss
Gilpin comes from the office and walks quickly to the
door, wrdocking and opening it. Eileen enters, fol-
lowed by NiCHOLLs, who is carrying her suit-case,
and by her father.]

Eileen — I'm Miss Carmody. I believe Doctor
Gaynor wrote

Miss Gilpin — \^Taking her hand — with kind
affability.] We've been expecting you all day. How
do you do? I'm Miss Gilpin. You came on the last
train, didn't you?

Eileen — [Heartened by the other womxirCs iWn3-

THE STRAW

neu.] Yes. This is my father. Miss Gilpin—
Mr. NicfaoUs — [Misa Gn^[&- thaleet handt cordiaU
with the (iro sira who are ttaring about the room i
embarras$nunt. Cabuodt hai r^rp Fcidently bet
drinking. Hit voice u thick and hit face puffed an
stupid. NiCHOLLs' manneT it that of one who it t
complithing a tteeetsary but disagreeable duty -an
the bcit grace possible, but is frightfully/ eager i
get it over and done icith. Cabmodt's condition e
barratses him acutely and irhra he glances at kirn
is with hatred and angry disgust.'l

Miss Gilpix — [Indicating the chairs »n front t
the vmdowt on the left, forward.^ Won't you f
tlemen sit down? [Cabmodt grunts tullenly an
plumps himself into the one nearest the doa
NiCHOLi-s hesitates, glacing down at the suit-case k
carries. Miss Gixpin turns to Eu-een.] And no
weHI get you settled immediately. Your r

ready for you. If youll follow me [She tun

toward the door in rear, center.^

Eileen — Let me take the suit-case now, Fred,
Miss Gilpin — [At he is about to hand it to h
decisively.'] Xo, my dear, you mustn't. Put 1
case right down there, Mr. Nicholls. Ill have :
taken to Miss Carmody's room in a moment. [Si
shakes her finger at Eileen with kindly admonition
That's the first rule you'll have to leam. Never e
ert yourself or tax your strength. It's very i
portant. You'll Gnd laziness is a virtue instead
ft nee with us.

THE STRAW 35

Edleen — {^Confused.l I I didn't know

Miss Gilpin — ^Smiling.} Of course you didn't.
And now if you'll come with me I'll show you your
room. We^l have a little chat there and I can ex-
plain all the other important rules in a second. The
gentlemen can make themselves comfortable in the
meantime. We won't be gone more than a moment.

NicHOLLs— [Ferfwjp called upon to iay some-
thing.'] Yes— we'll wait — certainly, we're all right.
[Cabmodt remains silent, glowering at the fire.
NicHOLLs sits doTen beside htm. Miss Gilpin otmJ
Eileen go out. MuaaAy switches Ms chair so he
tan observe the two mere out of the comer of his ey»
viale ■pretending to he absorbed in his hook.]

CAHMODy — [Looking ahout shiftily and reaching
for the inside pocket of his overcoat.'] I'll be havin'
* nip now we're alone, and that caeklin' hen gone.
Va feelin' sick in the pit of the stomach. ^He pvlls
wt a pint flask, half fvU.]

NicHOLLs — [Excitedly.] For God's sake, don't!
Put that bottle away ! [In a whisper.] Don't you
»e that fellow in the chair there?

Cabmodt — [Taking a big drink.] Ah, I'm not
mindin' a man at all. Sure I'll bet it's himself would
i(e Hkin' a taste of the same. [He appears about to
get tip and invite Mubrat to join him but Nicholls
grabs his arm,]

Nicholls — [WifA a frightened look at Mobkat
who appears huried in his book.] Stop it, you

THE STRAW 87

I, and not a hospital for the poor, but the poor
to pay for it.

NicHOLLB — [Fearful of another outbreak.} Sshh!
lBmody — Don't be Bhshin* at me? I'm tellm'
the truth. I'd make Eileen come back out of
: tonight if that divil of a doctor didn't have me
the throat,

FiCHOLLS — [Glancing at him jiervomly.} I won-

how soon she'll be back? The carriage is waiting

We'll have to hurry to make that last train

ck. If we miss it — it means two hours on the

1 trolley.

Iabmqdy — [Angrily.'] Is it anxious to get out of
sight you are, and you engaged to marry and
aidin' to love her? [Nickolls flushes guiltily.
BKAY pricks up his ears arid stares over at
HOI.I.S. The latter meets his glance, scowls, and
iedly averts his eyes. Carmody goes on accus-
/.] Sure, it's no heart at all you have — and her
sweetheart for years — and her sick with the
lumption — and you wild to run away from her
leave her alone,
[CHOLLS — [Springing to his feet — furiously,]

ist's a ! [He controls himself teitk an effort.

? trembles.] You're not responsible for the

itie things you're saying or I'd [He turns

seeking some escape from the old man's

e.] I'U see if the man is still there with the rig.

goes to the door on left and goes out.]

XODT — [FoUoaing him with his eyes.] Go to

ease, and not a hospital for the poor, but the poor
Eias to pay for it.

NicHOLi.8 — IFearful of another outbreak.^ Sshh!

Cabmodv — Don't be shshin* at me? I'm tellin*
jou the truth. I'd make Eileen come back out of
lliis tonight if that divil of a doctor didn't have me
by the tliroat.

NicHOLLs — [Glancing at him nemously.'] I won-
di-T how soon she'll be back? The carriage is waiting

!■ us. We'll have to hurry to make that last train

tk. If we miss it — it means two hours on the

v.nn trolley.

C.ixMODY — [AngrStf.'l Is it anxious to get out of

r ai^t you are, and you engaged to marry and
- [retendin* to love her? [Nicholls flushes guUtUy.

IUimBAT pricks up his ears and stares over at
KiCHoi^Ls. The latter meets his glance, scowls, and
' huriedltf averts his eyes. CAaMonv goet on accus-
V\'/.] Sure, it's no heart at all you have — and her
ur sweetheart for years — and her sick with the
■isrimption — and you wild to run away from her
"111 leave her alone.
XiCHoi.i.8 — [^Springing to his feet — furiously.^

That's a ! [He controls himself with an effort.

flit voice trembles.'\ You're not responsible for the

idiotic things you're saying or I'd [He tarns

ovaff, seeking some escape from the old man's
tongue.^ I'll see if the man is still there with the rig.
[Hf goes to the door on left and goes ouf.]
Cabmodt — [Following him with his eyes.^ Go to

THE STRAW 39

the kall.'\ If I'm not mistaken, here comes jour
daughter now.

Cabmody — [As Eileen comet into the room.]
ril make you acquainted. Eileen ! [She comes over
to them, embarrassed to find her father in hU condi-
tion so chummy with a stranger. Mubkay rises to
his feet.] This is Mr, Murray, Eileen. I want you
to meet. He's Irish and he'll put you on to the
ropes of the place. He's got the consumption, too,
God pity him.

Eileen— [Dm *re«e(f.] Oh, Father, how can

you \_With a look at Muesay which pleads for

her father.] I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Murray.

McEKAT — [TFi(A a straight glance at her which is
so frankly admiring that she flushes and drops her
eyes.] I'm glad to meet you, [The front door is
opened and Nicholls re-appears, shivering with the
cold. He stares over at the others with Si-concealed
irritation.]

Caemody — [Noticing him — with malicious satis-
faction.] Oho, here you are again. [Nicholls
scowls and turns away. Caemody addresses his
daughter with a sly wink at Mueray.] I thought
Fred was slidin' down hill to the train with his head
bare to the frost, and him so desperate hurried to
get away from here. Look at the knees on him
clappin' together with the cold, and with the great
fear that's in him he'll be catchin' a sickness in thia
place ! [Nicholls, Am guilty conscience stabbed to
the quick, turns pale with impotent rage,]

THE STRAW 39

t tuill,'] If I'm not nuBtaken, here comes jour
daughter now,

Cakmody — [Ai Eileen comes into the room.]
I'll make you acquainted. Eileen ! [She comes over
to theTtt, embarrassed to find her father in his condi-
tion so chiiimny with a stranger, MrKKAT rises to
kis feet.] This is Mr. Murray, Eileen. I want you
to meet. He's Irish and he'll put you on to the
ropes of the place. He's got the consumption, too,
God pity him.
Eileen — [Distressed.'] Oh, Father, how can

jou [With a look at Mukrat which pleads for

her father.] I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Murray,

MuBSAr — [With a straight glance at her which is
10 frankly admiring that she flushes and drops her
fi/ca.] I'm glad to meet you. [The front door is
opened and Nicholls re-appears, shivering with the
cold. He stares over at the others with Sl-concealed
irritation,]

Caemodv — [Noticing him — with malicious satis-
'iiction.] Oho, here you are again. [NiCHOti-a
■■f^Tiils and turns away. Caemody addresses his
■'fu^hter with a sly wink at Mueeay.] I thought
Trpd was slidin' down hill to the train with his head
'ire to the frost, and him so desperate hurried to
,'( away from here. Look at the knees on him
■ippin' together with the cold, and with the great
ir that's in him hell be catchin' a sickness in this
'ire! [NicHoi-Ls, his guilty conscience stabbed to
'<: quick, turns pale with impotent rage.]

40 THE STRAW !

Eileen — {^Remonstrating pitiffd[gi'\ Father! -^
Please! {She hurries over to NichoUs.'] Oh, please ^
don't mind him, Fred! You know what he is when -i
he's drinking. He doesn't mean a word he's saying. -

NicHOLLs — [Thickly.] That's all right — ^for .
you to say. But. I won't forget — ^I'm sick and tired i
standing for — ^I'm not used to — such people.

EiiiEEN — {Shrinking from Aim.] Fred!

NiCHOLLs — {With a furiotus glance at Mueeay.]
Before that cheap slob, too — ^letting him know er- '
ery thing! r

Eileen — {Faintly."] He seems — ^very nice.

NiCHOLLs — ^You've got your eyes set on him al-^
ready, have you? Leave it to you! No fear of
your not having a good time of it out here !

Eileen — ^Fred !

NiCHOLLs — ^Well, go ahead if you want to. I

don't care. Ill {Startled by the look of ainr

guish which comes over her face^ he hastily swaUowi
his words. He takes out watch — fiercely.] WeTl
miss that train, damn it !

Eileen — {In a stricken tone.] Oh, Fred! [Tfcwi
forcing back her tears she calls to Cabmodt fti tf
strained voice.] Father! You'll have to go now.
Miss Gilpin said to tell you you'd have to go ri^t
away to make the train.

Caemody — {Shaking hands with Mueeay.] M
be goin'. Keep your eye on her. I'll be out soon to
see her and you and me'U have another chin.

Mueeay — Glad to. Good-bye for the presentt

THE STRAW 41

[He walks to windows on the far right, turmng h*»
back considerately on their leave-taking.^

En^EN — [Comes to Cakmody aiid hangs on hit
arm as they proceed to the door-l Be sure and kiss
them all for me — Billy and Tom and Nora and little
Mary — and bring them out to see me as soon as you
can, father, please ! And you come often, too, won't
you? And don't forget to tell Mrs. Brcnnan all the
directions I gave you coming out on the train, I
told her but she mightn't remember — about Mary's
bath — and to give Tom his

Cakmody — [Impatiently.'] Hasn't she brought
up brats of her own, and doesn't she know the way
of it? Don't be worryin' now, like a fool,

Eileen — [Helples»ly.'\ Never mind telling her,
then, I'll write to her.

Cahmody — ^You'd better not. Leave her alone.
She'll not wish you mixin' in with her work and tellin'
her how to do it.

Eileen- — [Aghast.^ Her work! [She seems at
the end of her tether — wrung too dry for any fur-
ther emotion. She kisses her father at the door with
indifference and speaks calmly.] Good-bye, father.

Carmody^ — [In a whining tone of injury.] A cold
kiss! And never a small tear out of her! Is your
heart a stone? [Drunken tears well from his eyes
and he hlubhers.] And your own father going back
to a lone house with a stranger in it!

Eileen- — [Wear^y in a dead voice.] You'll miss
your train, father

Casmodt — [Raging in a tecond.'] I'm off, tha
Come on, Fred. It's no welcome we have with fc
here in this place — and a great curse on this day
brought her to it! '[He stamps out.^

Eileen — [In the same dead tone.'[ Good-bj
Fred.

NicHoLLs — [Repenting his words of a •
ago — confnsedl^.^ I'm sorry, Eileen — for what
said. I didn't mean — you know what your fath
is — excuse me, won't you?

Eileen — [Without feeHng."] Yes.

NicHOLLs — And I'll be out soon — in a week if
can make it. Well then, — good-bye for the pr
ent. [He bends down as if to kiss her but she shrit
back out of his reach.l

Eileen — [A faint trace of mockery in her weat
voice.l No, Fred, Remember you mustn't now.

NicHOLLs — [In an instant huff.] Oh, if that

the way you feel about [He strides out i

slams the door viciously behind him, Eileen wc
slowly back toward the fireplace, her face fixed i
dead calm of despair. As she sinks into one of i
armchairs, the strain becomes too much. She breo
down, hiding her face in her hands, her frail shoi
ders heaving with the violence of her sobs. At tl
sound, McERAT turns from the windows arid con
over near her chair.]

Ml'bray — [After watching her for a vwment-^
an embarrassed tone of sympathy.] Come on, M
Carmody, that'll never do. I know it's hard at fi

THE STRAW 43

^but — ^getting yourself all worked up is bad for
you. You'll run a temperature and then they'll
keep you in bed — which isn't pleasant. Take hold
of yourself ! It isn't so bad up here — really — once
you get used to it! [The shame she feelt at giving
■way in the presence of a stranger ordy adds to her
loss of control and she sobs heartbrokenly. Mur-
ray walks up and down nervously, visibly nonplussed
and upset. Finally he hits upon something.~\ One
of the nurses will be in any minute. You don't want
them to see you like this.

Eileen — [Chokes back her sobs and finally raises
her face and attempts a smile.^ I'm sorry — to make
such a sight of myself. I just couldn't help it.

Mkrbat — [^J ocularly.'] Well, they say a good
cry does you a lot of good.

Eii^EN — [Forcing a smile.] I do feel — ^better.

Murray — [Staring at her with a quissical smile

— cj/mcally.] You shouldn't take those lovers'

squabbles so seriously. Tomorrow he'll be sorry —

you'll be sorry. He'll write begging forgiveness —

joull do ditto. Result — all serene again.

^^mEn.EE'S'—[A shadow of pain on her face — with

^^k/nity.] Don't — please.

^^PMdhbay — [Angry at himself — hanging his head
contritely.] I'm a fool. Pardon me. I'm rude
sometimes — before I know it, [He shakes off his
mfusion with a renewed attempt at a joking tone.]
bu can blame your father for any breaks I make.

THE STRAW

■to

He made me your guardian, jou know — told i
Bee that you behaved.

Eileen — [Tri(A a gemiine smile.'] Oh, fatherl
[Flushing.'] You mustn't mind anything he said
tonight.

McERAY — [Thouglitlesaly-I Yes, he was well lit
up, I envied him, [Eileen looks very shame-facedt
MuERAT sees it and exclaims in exasperation at him-
self. 1 Dam! There I go again putting my foot in
it! [^With an irrepressible grin.] I ought to have
my tongue operated on— that's what's the matteB
with me, [He laughs and throws himself in a chair

Eileen — [Forced in spite of herself to smUe with
him.] You're candid, at any rate, Mr. Murray.

MoKRAY — Don't misunderstand me. Far be it
from me to cast slurs at your father's high spirits.
I said I envied him his jag and that's the truth. The
same candor compels me to confess that I was pickled
to the gills myself when I arrived here, Factl
made love to all the nurses and generally disgraced
myself^and had a wonderful time.

EiiEEN — I suppose it does make you forget your
troubles — for a while,

MoRRAT — [Wavivg this aside.] I didn't want ts
forget — not for a second, I wasn't drowning mj
sorrow. I was hilariously celebrating.

Eileen^ — [Astonished — by this time quite tntet
eited in this queer fellow to the momentary forget*,
fulness of her own grief.] Celebrating — ct
here? But— aren't you sick?

THE STRAW 45

McBRAY — T. B.? Yes, of course. [Confiden-
tiaUif.] But it's only a matter of time when I'll be
all right again. I hope it won't be too soon. I was
dying for a rest — a good, long rest with time to
think about things. I'm due to get what I wanted
Here. That's why I celebrated.

Eileen — [TFifft zeide eyes.^ I wonder if you
really mean

MuEKAY — What I've been sayin'? I sure do —
every word of it !

Eileen — [^Puzzled.^ I can't understand how
anyone could— — - [WifA a worried glance over her
gkovlder.^ I think Td better look for Miss Gilpin,

hadn't I? She may wonder [She half rises

from her chair-J

MuKRAT — [Quickly.'] No. Please don't go yet.
Sit down. Please do. [She glances at him irreso-
lutely, then resumes her chair.] Thcyll give you
your diet of milk and shoo you off to bed on that
freezing porch soon enough, don't worry. I'll see
to it that you don't fracture any rules. [Hitching
his chair nearer hers, — impidaively.] In all charity
to me you've got to stick awhile. I baven't had a
chance to really talk to a soul for a week. You
found what I said a while ago bard lo believe, didn't
you?

Eileen — [With a smUe.] Isn't it? You said you
hoped you wouldn't get well too soon !

MtTERAY — And I meant it ! This place is hon-

tly like heaven to me — a lonely heaven till your

THE STRAW

arrival, [Eileen looki embarratned.ll And wl^
wouldn't it beP I've no fear for my health — even
tually. Just let me tell jou what I was gettin

away from \^Witk a sudden laugh fvXl of i

xeeary hittcmesi.^ Do you know what it means t
work from seven at night till three in the momin,
as a reporter on a morning newspaper in a town oj
twenty thousand people — for ten years? No. Yoa
don't. Vou can't. No one could who hadn't I
through the mill. But what it did to me-
me happy — yes, happy! — to get out here — ^T.
and all, notwithstanding.

EiLEEK — [^Looking at him curiously.'] But I al*
ways thought being a reporter was so interestingi

MuBRAY — l^With a cynical laugk.^ Interesting?
On a small town rag? A month of it, perhaps, wha
you're a kid and new to the game. But ten years,
Think of it ! With only a raise of a couple of dol
lars every blue moon or so, and a weekly spree c
Saturday night to vary the monotony. [He laugh
again.] Interesting, ehP Getting the dope on th*
Social of the Queen Esther Circle in the basement a
the Methodist Episcopal Churcb, unable to sle^
through a meeting of the Common Council on ao
count of the noisy oratory caused by John Smith'
application for a permit to build a house; makinj
a note that a tug boat towed two barges loaded witi
coal up the river, that Mrs. Perkins spent a i
end with relatives in Hickville, that John Jones—
Oh help! Why go on? Ten years of it! I'm

THE STRAW 47

l^rolcen man. God, how I used to pray that our
Congressman 'would commit suicide, or the Major
murder his wife — just to be able to write a real
story !

Eileen — [ir»(A a smUe.^ Is it as bad as that?
But weren't there other tilings in the town — outside
your work— that were interesting?

MiTBBAT — [Decidedly.'\ Nope. Never anything
new — and I knew everyone and everything in town
by heart years ago. [With sudden bittemes3.'\
Oh, it was my own fault. Why didn't I get out of it?
Well, I didn't, I was always going to— tomorrow —
and tomorrow never came. I got in a rut — and
stayed put. People seem to get that way, somehow
— ^in that town. It's in the air. All the boys I
grew up with — nearly all, at least — took root in the
same way. It took pleurisy, followed by T. B., to
blast me loose.

Eheen — [Wandermgly.'l But — your family —
didn't they live there?

MuERAY — I haven't much of a family left. My
mother died when I was a kid. My father — he was
a lawyer — died when I was nineteen, just about to
go to coUege. He left nothing, so I went to work
on the paper instead. And there I've been ever
since. I've two sisters, respectably married and
living in another part of the state. We don't get
along — ^but they are paying for me here, so I sup-
pose Pve no kick. \^CynicaUy.'] A family wouldn't
have changed things. From what I've seen that

48 THE STRAW

blood-thicker-tb an- water dope is all wrong. ]
tliinner limn table-d'ln'ite soup. You may have 6
a bit of that truth in jour own case already.

Eileen — \^Shockcd.^ How can you say that
You don't know

MuHRAY— Don't I, though? Wait till youVebei
here tliree months or four — when the gap you Id
has been comfortably filled. You'll see then !

£u.EEN — l^Angrily, her lips trembling.^ Yo
must be crazy to say such things! [Fighting hoc
her tears.^ Oh, I think it's hateful — when you a
how badly I feel!

MuBBAY — [In acute confusion. Stammering.
Look here, Miss Carmody, I didn't mean to-
Listen — -don't feci mad at me, please. My tonga
ran away with me. I was only talking. I'm Vik
that. You mustn't take it seriously.

Eileen — [Still resentfitl.] I don't see how yo
can talk. You don't — you can't know about the
things — when you've just said you had no family o
your own, really.

McKHAY — [Eager to return to her good graces^\
No. Of course I don't know. I was just talkin
regardless for the fun of listening to it.

'E.iLzs.V!— [After a pajwe.] Hasn't either of 3
sisters any children?

MuBRAY— One of them has — two of them — u^;
squally little brats.

ErLEEN — [Disapprovmgly.l You don't like I
bies?

THE STRAW 49

MussAT — [Bluntli/.^ No, IThen with a grin
at her shocked face.] I don't get ttiem. They're
sometlung I can't seem to get acquainted with.

Eileen — \^With a smile, indulgently.] You're a
tunny person. \^Then with a superior motherly air.]
No wonder you couldn't understand how badly I
feel. [TrifA a tender smUe.] I've four of them —
my brothers and sisters — though tliey're not what
you'd call babies, except to me. Billy is fourteen,
Nora eleven, Tom ten, and even little Mary is eight.
Pve been a mother to them now for a whole year —
ever since our mother died. [Sadh/.] And I don't
know how they'll ever get along while I'm away.

Murray — [Cynically.~\ Oh, they'll [He

checks what he zeas going to say and adds lamely]
get along somehow,

Eileen — [IFiift the same superior tone.] It's
easy for you to say that. You don't know how
children grow to depend on you for everything.
You're not a woman.

MtiRRAT — [TTif/i a grin.] Are you? [Then
tnth a chw;kle,] You're as old as the pyramids,
aren't you? I feel like a little boy. Won't you
adopt me, too?

Eileen — [Flushing, with a shy smUe.] Someone

n ought to, [Quickly changing the subject.] Do you

know, I can't get over what you said about hating

your work so. I should think it would be wonderful

— to be able to write things.

MuRBAT — My job had nothing to do with writing.

80 THE STRAW

To write — really write — yes, that's something wort
trying for. That's what I've always meant to hart
a stab at. I've run across ideas enough for storieil
— that sounded good to me, anyway. [TVif/i a force
laugh.'] But — like everything else — I never ,
down to it. I started one or two — ^but — either :

thought I didn't have the time or [^He ahn

his shouldert.]

Eileen — Well, youVe plenty of time now, haved
yon?

MrEEAY — [Inftantly struck by this suggestion.

You mean I could write — up here? [Sfc^ noA

His face lights up with enthusiasm.] Say! That i
an idea! Thank you! I'd never have had seni
enough to have thought of that myself. [En
flushes with pleasure.] Sure there's time — nothing
but time up here

Eileen — Then you seriously think you'll try il

MuERAY — [Determinedly.] Yes. Why not? I*
got to try and do something real sometime, haven'
I? I've no excuse not to, now. My mind isn't sicli

Eileen — [Excitedly.] That'll be wonderful!

MuEEAV — [Confidently.] Listen. I've had ideei^
for a series of short stories for the last couple of I
years — small town experiences, some of them actual. |
I know that life — too dam well. I ought to be able
to write about it. And if I can sell one — to the
Post, say — I'm sure they'd take the others, too. And
then I should worry! It'd be easy sailing.

THE STRAW

But yoo must promise to help — play critic for me
— read them and tell me where they're rotten.
F.iT.ppTj — \^Pleased but protesting.^ Oh, no, I'd

never dare. I don't know anything

Mu&ttAT^ — ^Yes, you do. You're the public. And
you started me off on this thing — if I'm really
starting at last. So you've got to back me up now.
\_Siiddenly.'\ Say, I wonder if they'd let me have a
typewriter up here? >

Eileen — It'd be fine if they would. I'd like to
have one, too — to practice. I learned stenography
at business college and then I had a position lor a
year — ^before my mother died.

McBBAY — We could hire one — ^I could. I don't
Bee why they wouldn't allow it. I'm to be sent to one
of tlie men's sliacks within tlie next few days, and
joull be shipped to one of the women's cottages
within ten d vs. You're not sick enough to be kept
here in bed, x'm sure of that.

Eileen — I I don't know

Muebay — Here! None of that! You just think
^^ jou're not and you won't be. Say, I'm teen on that
^■^^writer idea. They couldn't kick if we only
^^Ked it during recreation periods. I could have it
^^Vireek, and then you a week.

I Eileen — [£agerZy.] And I could type your
stories after you've written them ! I could help that
»ay.

caBAT — \^Smiling.'\ But I'm quite able

■en seeing how interested she is he adds hur-

THE STRAW

riedl^.'} That'd be great ! It'd save so much ti
I've always been a bum at a machine. And I'd

willing to paj whatever [Miss Gilfin entt

from the rear and walks toward them.^

Eileen — {^Quickly.'] Oh, no! I'd be glad

get the practice. I wouldn't accept [.

coughs slightly.']

MuEBAY — [With a laugh.] Majbe, after you'
read my stuff, you won't type it at any price,
s- Miss Gilpin — Miss Carmody, may I speak to ji
for a moment, please. [She takes Eileen aside at
talks to her in low tones of admonition. Eel]
face falls. She nods a horrified acquiescence.
Gilpin leaves her and goes into the office, reor.]

MuBRAr — [At EUecn comes back. I^oticmg i
perturbation. Kindly,] Well? Now, what's tl
trouble?

EiiJiEN — [Her lips trejnbling.] She told
mustn't forget to shield my mouth with my handkf
chief when I cough.

MuBRAr — [CoTisolingly.] Yes, that'8 one of
rules, you tnow.

Eileen — ^F altering} y.] She said they'd give

— a — cup to carry around [She stops, shu

dermg. ]

MuBBAT — [Easili/.] It's not as horrible aa
sounds. They're only little paste-board things J
carry in your pocket.

Eileen — [As if speaking to herself.] It's so hi
rible. [She holds out her liand to Mubeay.] 1

THE STRAW 68

to go to my room now. Grood night, Mr. Murray.
MusBAT — [^Holding her hand for a moment —
eamestltf.] Don't mind your first impressions here.
You'll look on everything as a matter of course in
a few days. I felt your way at first. [^He drops
her hand and shakes his finger at her.'] Mind your
guardian, now! [She forces a trembling smile. ]
See you at breakfast. Good night. [Eileen goes
out to the hall in rear. Miss Howasd comes in from
the door just after her, carrying a glass of milk.]
Miss HowAsn — ^Almost bedtime, Mr. Murray.
L Here's your diet. \^He takes the glass. She smiles
at him provokingly.] Well, is it love at first sight,
Mr. Murray?

MuEEAT — [With a grin.] Sure thing! You can
consider yourself heartlessly jilted. [He turns and
raises his glass toward the door through which
Eileen has jv^t gone, as if toasting her.]
^*A glass of milk, and thou

Coughing beside me in the wilderness

Ah ^wilderness were Paradise enow!"

[He takes a sip of mUk.]

Miss HowAED — [Peevishly.] That's old stufi^,
I Mr. Murray. A patient at Saranac wrote that par-
ody.

MuEEAY — [Maliciously.,] Aha, you've discovered
. it's a parody, have you, you sly minx! [Miss How-
p- AKj) turns from him huffily and walks back towards
f ^he office, her chin in the air.]
f [The Curtain Falls]

Acrn

ACT II

SCENE ONE

iHK — The assembly room of the mam buSding of
the sanatorium — early in the morning of a fine
t in Jwne, four months later. The room «
large, light and airy, painted a fresh white.
On the left forward, an armchair. Farther
back, a door opening on the main hall. To the
rear of this door a pianola on a raised plat-
form. In back of the pianola, a door leading
into the office. In the rear waU, a long series
of French windows looking out on the lawn,
TCith wooded hiUs in the far background.
Shrvhs in flower grow immediately outside the
windows. Inside, there is a row of potted
plants. In the right wall, rear, four windows.
Farther forward, a long, well-filled bookcase,
and a doorway leading into the dining room.
Following the walls, but about five feet out from
them a stiff Ivneof chairs placed closely against
each other forms a sort of right-angled audit-
orium of which the large, square table that
stands at center, forward, would seem to be the
atage.

THE STRAW

From the dining room comet the clatter of
diihes, the confused murmur of many voiceif
male and female— all the mingled aowndt of
crowd of people at a meal.

After the curtain rtset, DocToa Stavtom

enters from the hall, followed by a visitor. Me.

Sloan, and the assistant physician, Docto*

SiMMS. Doctor Stanton is a handsome

of forty-five or so with a grave, care-lined,

studious face lightened by a kindly, humorotU

smile. His gray eyes, saddened by the suffi

ing they have witnessed, have the sympathetii

quality of real ^understanding. The look tht\

give is full of companionship, the courage-r

newing, human companionship of a hope whi<

is shared. He speaks with a slight Souther

accent, soft and slurring. Doctoe Simms m

taU, angular young man with a long, saUoi

face and a sheepish, self-conscious grin. Mi

Sloan is fifty, short and stout, weU dressed-

one of the successful business Tnen •whose e

dowments have made the HtU Farm a poti

bUittf,

Stanton — [^As they enter.'] This is what y(

might call the general assembly room, Mr. Sloan-

whero the patients of both seses are allowed to co

gTGgate together after meals, for diets, and in tlj

evening.

Sloan — ILooking around him.'] ConldnH
more pleasant, I must say — light and airy, [fl

walkt where he can take a peep into the dining
T00m.~l Ah, they're all at breakfast, I see.

Stanton — {^Smiling.] Yos, and with no lack of
appetite, let me tell you. [With a laugh of proud
satisfaction.'] They'd sure eat us out of house and
home at one sitting, if we'd give Uiem the oppor-
tunity. [To his assistant.'] Wouldn't they. Doc-
tor?

SiuMS — [With his abashed grin.] You bet they
Would, sir.

Sloan — [With a sviile.] That's fine. [With a
nod toward the dining room.'] The ones in there are
tlie sure cures, aren't theyp

Stantqn — [A shadow coming over his face.^
Strictly spealting, there are no sure cures in this
•feease, Mr. Sloan. When we permit a patient to
ittum to take up his or her activities in the world,
the patient is what we call an arrested case. The
disease is overcome, quiescent; the wound is healed
over. It's then up to the patient to so take care
of himself that this condition remains permanent.
It isn't hard for them to do this, usually. Just or-
dinary, bull-headed common sense— added to what
they've learned here — is enough for their safety.
And the precautions we teach them to take don't
diminish their social usefulness in the slightest,
either, as I can prove by our statistics of former
patients. [TTiife a smUc] It's rather early in the
morning for statistics, though.

Mk. Sloan — [With a wave of the hand.] Oh,

60 THE STRAW

you needn't. Your reputation in that respecl:. Doc-
tor^— [Stanton inclines his head in achund'
edgment. Sloan jerks his thumb toward the dining
roomS\ But the ones in there are getting well^
aren't they?

Stanton — To all appearances, yes. You don't
dare swear to it, though. Sometimes, just when a
case looks most favorably, there's a sudden, un*
foreseen breakdown and they have to be sent back
to bed, or, if it's very serious, back to the Infirmary
again. These are the exceptions, however, not the
rule. You can bank on most of those eaters being
out in the world and usefully employed within six
months.

Sloan — ^You couldn't say more than that. [Jb-
ruptly,"] But — the imfortunate ones— do you have
many deaths ?

Stanton — [With a frown."] No. We're under
a very hard, almost cruel imperative which prevents
that. If, at the end of six months, a case shows no
response to treatment, continues to go down hill —
if, in a word, it seems hopeless — we send them away,
to one of the State Farms if they have no private
means. [Apologetically,'] You see, this sanatorium
is overcrowded and has a long waiting list most of
the time of others who demand their chance for life.
We have to make places for them. We have no
time to waste on incurables. There are other places
for them — and sometimes, too, a change is beneficial
and they pick up in new surroundings. You never

•j

THE STRAW 61

can tdL But we're bound by the rule. It may seem
cmd — but it's as near justice to all concerned as
we can come.

Sloan — \^Soherly.'\ I see. [His eye$ fall on the
ptofioJa — in surprise.'\ Ah — a piano.

Stanton — [Replying to the other's thought,"]
Yes, the patients play and sing. [With a smUe.]
If you'd call the noise they make by those terms.
They'd dance, too, if we permitted it. There's only
one song taboo — ^Home, Sweet Home. We forbid
that — ^for obvious reasons.

Sloan — ^I see* [With a final look aroimd.'] Did
I understand you to say this is the only place where
the sexes are permitted to mingle?
Stanton — ^Yes, sir.

Sloan — [With a STnUe."] Not much chance for a
love affair, then.

Stanton — [Seriously,"] We do our best to pre-
vent them. We even have a strict rule which allows
us to step in and put a stop to any intimacy which
grows beyond the casual. People up here, Mr.
Sloan, are expected to put aside all ideas except the
one — ^getting well.

Sloan — [Somewhat embarrassed.] A danm good
rule, too, I should say, imder the circumstances.

Stanton — [With a laugh.] Yes, we're strictly
anti-Cupid, sir, from top to bottom. [Turning to
the door to the hall.] And now, if you don't mind,
Mr. Sloan, I'm going to turn you footloose to wander
about the grounds on an unconducted tour. Today

THE ST

is my busy morning — Saturday. We weigh ead
patient immediately after breakfast.

Sloan — Every week?

Stanton — Every Saturday, You see we depi
on fluctuations in weight to tell us a lot about t
patient's condition. If they gain, or stay at nonnaf
all's usually well. If they lose week after week v
out any reason we can definitely point to, we kec
careful watch. It's a sign that something's wrong*
We're forewarned by it and on our guard.

Sloan— [H't//t a smUe.l Well, I'm certain
learning things. [He tumi to the door.'] And yo^
just shoo me ofF wherever you please and go on wit!
the good work. I'll be glad of a ramble in the opt
on such a glorious morning.

STANTON^After the weighing is over, sir, I'll b
free to — — [His words are lost as the three go out,
A -moment later, Eileen enters from the dining room.
She has grown stouter, her face has more of i
healthy, out-of-door color, but there is stUl abovi
her the s\tggestion of being worn down by a burdA
too oppressive for her courage. She is dressed
shirtwaist and dark skirt. She goes to the armchaili
left forward, and sinks down on it. She is evidentlm
in a state of nervous depression; she twists her ^**1
gers together in her lap; her eyes stare sadly befonm
her; she clenches lier upper lip with her teeth to pre-
vent its trembling. She has hardly regained con-
trol over herself when Stephen Murkat comes in
hurriedly from the dining room and, seeing her al

THE STHAW 68

his first glance, walks quicMy over to her chair. He
it the picture of health, his figure hag filled out tol-
idly, his taji/ned face beams with suppressed andta-
tion,]

MuKBAT — l^Excitedly.'] Eileen! I saw you leave
your table. I've something to tell you. I didn't get
» chance last night after the mail came. You'd
gone to the cottage. Just listen, Eileen — it's too
good to be true — but on that mail — guess what?

EaEEN — [Forgetting her depression—with an ex-
cited smile.^ I know ! You've sold your story !

McHRAT — [Triumphantly.'] Go to the head of
the class. What d'you know about that for luck!
My first, too— and only the third magazine I sent
it to! [He cuts a joyful caper.]

Eileen — [Happily.] Isn't that wonderful,
Stephen! But I knew all tlie time you would. The
story's so good.

MuEEAY — Well, you might have known but I
didn't think there was a chance in the world. And

as for being good [With superior air]

wait till I turn loose with the real big ones, the
kind I'm going to write. Then I'll make them sit up
and take notice. They can't stop me now. This
money gives me a chance to sit back and do what I
please for a while. And I haven't told you the best
part. The editor wrote saying how much he liked
le yam and asked me for more of the same kind.
iSiLEEN — ^And you've the three others about the

THE STRAW

same person — jusl as good, tool Why, you'll sdl
them all! \^She claps her hands delightedly.^

McKBAY — And I can send them out right away^
They're all typed, thanks to you. That's whatl
brought me luck, I know. I never had a bit by my-
self. [Then, after a quick glance around to makl
sure they are alone, he bends doum and kisses her.
There ! A token of gratitude — even if it is againi
the rules.

Eileen — [Flushing — with timid happiness.^ St<
phen ! You mustn't ! They'll see.

MuBKAT — [Boldli/.^ Let them!

Eileen — But you know— they've warned
against being so much together, already.

Murray — Let them ! We'll be out of this priso
soon. [Eileen sluikes her head sadly hut he dot
not notice.^ Oh, I wish you could leave when I c
We'd have some celebration together.

En^EN — [Her lips trembling.'] I was thi
last night — that you'd soon be going away. Yo
look so well. Do you think — they'll let you {
soonP

MuBEAY — You bet I do. I'm bound to go noi
It's ridiculous keeping me here when I'm as health
as a pig. I caught Stanton in the hall last nigl
and asked him if I could go.

Eileen — [Ainriously.'\ What did he say?

McRRAY— He only smiled and said; "We'll si
if you gain weight tomorrow." As if that mattere
now ! Why, I'm way above normal as it is ! Bt

THE STRAW 65

you know Stanton — always putting you off. But I
could tell by the way he said it he'd be willing to

con aider

Eiij;en — [^Slowly.~\ Then — if you gain to-
day

McEEAY — He'll let me go. Yes, I know he will.
I'm going to insist on it.

En-EEN^Then — you'll leave— — -?
MuKBAY — Right away. The minute I can get
packed,

Enxzn — {^Tryinff to force a smUe.l Oh, I'm so
glad — ^for your sake; but — I'm selfish — itil be so
Llonely here without you,

Mdesat — [Consolinglif.'] You'll be going away
rourself before long, [Eileen shakes her head. He
loes on Ttnthout noticing, wrapped in his own suc-
■£0v*,] Oh, Eileen, you can't imagine all it opens up
for me — selling that story, I don't have to go back
home to stagnate. I can go straight to New York,
and live, and meet real people who are doing things.
I can take my time, and try and do the work I hope
to. [^Feelingly. 1 You don't know how grateful I
am to you, Eileen — how you've helped me. Oh, I
don't mean just the typing, I mean your encourage-
ment, your faith! I'd never have had guts enough
to stick to it myself. The stories would never have
been written if it hadn't been for you.

Eileen — [CAoAingr back a «o&,] I didn't do —
BBything,
MtrEftAT — [Staring down, at her- — -with rough

66 THE STRAW

kindliness,'] Here, here, that'll never do! You're
not weeping about it, are you, silly? [^He pats her
on the shovlderJ] What's the matter, Eileen? You
didn't eat a thing this morning. I was watching you.
[With kindly severity,'] That's no way to gain
weight, you know. You'll have to feed up. Do you
hear what your guardian commands, eh?

Eileen — [With dull hopelessness.] I know III
lose again. I've been losing steadily the past three
weeks.

Murray — ^Here ! Don't you dare talk that way !
I won't stand for it. Why, you've been picking up
wonderfully — ^until just lately. You've made such
a game fight for four months. Even the old Doc
has told you how much he admired your pluck, and
how much better you were getting. You're not go-
ing to quit now, are you?

Eileen — [Despairingly.] Oh, I don't care! I
don't care — ^now.

Murray — Now? What do you mean by that?
What's happened to make things any different?

Eileen — [Evasively.] Oh — nothing. Don't ask
me, Stephen.

Murray — [With sudden anger.] I don't have to
ask you. I can guess. Another letter from home —
or from that ass, eh?

Eileen — [Shaking her head.] No, it isn't that.
[She looks at him as if imploring him to compre-
hend.]

Murray — [Furiously.] Of course, you'd deny

THE STRAW 67

it. You always do. But don't you suppose IVe got
eyes? It's been the same damn thing all the time
you've been here. After every nagging letter —
thank God they don't write often any more! —
you've been all in; and after their Sunday visits —
you can thank Grod they've been few, too — ^you're
utterly knocked out. It's a shame! The selfish
swine!

Eileen — Stephen !

MuBEAY — {Relentlessly S\ Don't be sentimental,
Eileen. You know it's true. From what you've told
me of their letters, their visits,-*-f rom what I've seen
and suspected — ^they've done nothing but worry and
torment you and do their best to keep you from get-
ting well.

Eileen — [Faintly,'] You're not fair, Stephen.

MuREAY — Rot ! When it isn't your father grum-
bling about expense, it's the kids, or that stupid
housekeeper, or that slick Aleck, NichoUs, with his
cowardly lies. Which is it this time?

Eileen — {Pitifully,'] None of them.

Murray — {Explosively.] But him, especially —
the dirty cad I Oh, I've got a rich notion to pay a
call on that gentleman when I leave and tell him what
I think of him.

Eileen — {Qmckly,] No — ^you mustn't ever!

He's not to blame. If you knew {STie stops,

lowering her eyes in confibsion,]

Murray — {Roughly,] Knew what? You make
me sick, Eileen — always finding excuses for him. I

68 THE STRAW

never could understand what a girl like you coul<

see But what's the use? I've said all this be

fore. You're wasting yourself on a [Ruddy,

Love must be blind. And yet you say you don't lov
him, really?

Eileen — [Shaking her head — helplessly.'] But ]
do — ^like Fred. We've been good friends so man]
years. I don't want to hurt him — ^his pride

Murray — That's the same as answering no to mj
question. Then, if you don't love him, why don'1

you write and tell him to go to break it offi

[Eileen bows her head but doesn*t reply. Irritated
Murray continues brutally.'] Are you afraid i'
would break his heart? Don't be a fool! The onb
way you could do that would be to deprive him o:
his meals.

Eileen — [Springing to her feet — distractedly/
Please stop, Stephen! You're cruel! And you'v<
been so kind — the only real friend I've had up here
Don't spoil it all now.

Murray — {Remorsefully.] I'm sorry, Eileen. I
was only talking. I won't say another word. {Irri-
tably.] Still, someone ought to say or do something
to put a stop to

Eileen — {With a broken laugh.] Never mind.
Everything will stop— soon, now !

Murray — {Suspiciously.] What do you mean?

Eileen — {With an attempt at a careless tone,]

Nothing. If you can't see {She turns to hm

with sudden intensity.] Oh, Stephen, if you onlj

THE STRAW 69

knew how wrong you are about everything youVe
said. It's all true; but it isnH that — any of it —
guy more that's Oh, I can't tell you !

Mu&KAT — [TTfffc great interest. "l Please do,
Eileen!

EnuBEN — [With a helpless laugh."] No.
[' MuBBAT — Please tell me what it is ! Let me help

; you-

Eileen— rNo. It wouldn't be any use, Stephen.

MuRBAT — [Offended.] Why do you say that?
, Haven't I helped before?

Eileen — Yes — ^but this

MuBBAT — Come now ! 'Fess up ! What is "this"?

Eileen — No. I couldn't speak of it here, any-
way. They'll all be coming out soon.

MuBBAT — [Inststently] Then when? Where?

Eileen — Oh, I don't know — ^perhaps never, no-
where. I don't know Sometime before you

leave, maybe.

MuBBAT — But I may go tomorrow morning — ^if
I gain weight and Stanton lets me.

Eileen — [Sadly.] Yes, I was forgetting — you
were going right away. [Dully.] Then nowhere,
I suppose — ^never. [Glancmg toward the dining
room.] They're all getting up. Let's not talk about
it any more — ^now.

MuBBAT — [Stubbornly.] But youll tell me la-
ter, Eileen? You must.

Eileen — [Vaguely J] Perhaps. It depends

[The patients^ about forty in number^ straggle in

70 THE STRAW

from the dining room hy twos cmd threes^ chatting in
low tones. The men and women with few exceptions
separate into two groups, the women congregating
in the left right angle of chairs , the men sitting or
standing in the right right angle. In appeanmce,
most of the patients are tarmed, healthy, and cheerful
looking. The great majority are under middle age.
Their clothes are of the cheap, ready-made variety.
They are all distinctly of the wage-earning class.
They might well he a crowd of cosmopolitan factory
workers gathered together after a summer vacation.
A hollow-chestedness and a tendency to rownd
shoulders m^y he detected as a common characteris-
tic. A general air of tension, marked hy frequent
hursts of laughter in too high a key, seems to per-
vade the throng, Murray and Eileen, as if to avoid
contact with the others, come over to the right in
front of the dinmg-room door."]

Murray — J[In a low voiee."] Listen to them laugh*
Did you ever notice — ^perhaps it's my imaginatioa
• — ^how forced they act on Saturday mornings before
they're weighed?

Eileen — [^Dully.'] No.

Murray — Can't you tell me that secret now? No
one'll hear.

Eileen — [^Vehemently.'] No, no, how could I?
Don't speak of it ! \_A sudden silence falls on aU the
groups at once. Their eyes, hy a common impulse,
turn quickly toward the door to the haU.]

A Woman — [Nervotisly — as if this moment*s »-

THE STRAW

lent pause oppressed her.J Play something, Peters,
They ain't coming yet, [Peters, a stupid-looking
young fellow with a sly, twisted simrh which gives
him the appearance of perpetually winking his eye,
detaches himself from a group on the right. All
joirt in with urging exclamations: "Go on, Peters!
Go to it! Pedal up, -Pete! Give us a rag! That's
the hoy, Peters!" etc.^

PETERS^Sure, if I got time, [He goes to the
pianola and puts in. a roll. The mingled conversa'
iion and laughter hursts forth again as he sits on
Ihc bench aW starts pedaling.]
I MURRAY— [Disgustedly.] It's sure good to think
have to listen to that old tin-pan heing
banged mucli longer! [The music interrupts him —
I juici rag. The patients brighten, hum, whistle,
(■ay their heads or tap their feet in time to the tume.
JOCTOB Stanton and Doctor Simms appear in the
torway from the hall. All eyes are turned on them,]
T Stakton — [Raising his voice.] They all seem to
here, Doctor, We might as well start. [Mrs.
TiNER, the matron, comes in behind them — a stout,
capable-looking woman with grey hair.
£ hears Stanton's remark.]

Turner — ^And take temperatures after,
?

Stanton — Yes, Mrs. Turner. I think that's bet-
ter today.

;, ToENEE — ^All right. Doctor, [Stanton
p attistant go out. Mrs. Tcbner advances a ati

7« THE STRAW

or so into the room and looks from one group of po-
tients to the other, inclining her head and smSLmg
benevolently. AU force smUes and nod in recogni-
tion of her greeting.'' Peters, at the pianola, lets
the music slow down, glancing questioningly at the
matron to see if she is going to order it stopped.
Then, encouraged by her smile^ his feet pedal harder
than ever.'\

Murray — Look at old Mrs. Grundy's eyes pinned
on us ! She'll accuse us of being too familiar again,
the old wench !

Eileen — Ssshh. You're wrong. She's looking at
me, not at us.

Murray — ^At you? Why?

Eileen — ^I ran a temperature yesterday. It must
have been over a himdred last night.

Murray — [With consoling scepticism.'\ You're
always suffering for trouble, Eileen. How do you
know you ran a temp? You didn't see the stick, I
suppose?

Eileen — No — but — ^I could tell. I felt feverish
and chilly. It must have been way up.

Murray — ^Bosh! If it was you'd have been sent
to bed.

Eileen — ^That's why she's looking at me. [Pit-
eously."] Oh, I do hope I won't be sent back to bed!
I don't know what I'd do. If I could only gain this
morning. If my temp has only gone down ! [Hope'

lessly.l But I feel I didn't sleep a wink—

thinkini

THE STRAW 78

MuBRAY — [RougMy.'] You'll persuade yourself
you've got leprosy in a second. Don't be a nut!
It's all imagination, I tell you. Youll gain. Wait
and see if you don't. [Eioleen shakes her head. A
TnetaUic nimble and jangle comes from the hallway.
Everyone turns in that direction with nervous ex-
pectancy.']

Mbs. Tuenee — \_Admonishingly.] Mr. Peters!

Petees — ^Yes, ma'am. [^He stops playing and re-
joins the group of men on the right. In the midst
of a silence broken only by hushed murmurs of conr
versatiouy Doctoe Stanton appears in the hall
doorway. He turns to help his assistant wheel in a
Fairbanks scale on castors. They place the scale
against the wall immediately to the rear of the door-
way. DocTOE SiMMs adjusts it to a perfect bal-
ance."]

DocTOE Stanton — [Takes a pencil from his
pocket and opens the record book he has in his
hand.] All ready, Doctor?

DocTOE SiMMs — Just a second, sir. \_A chorus of
coughs comes from the impatient crowd, and hand-
kerchiefs are hurriedly produced to shield mouths.]

MuEEAY — [With a nervous smile.] Well, we're all
set. Here's hoping!

En-EEN — ^You'll gain, I'm sure you will. You
look so well.

MuERAY — Oh — I — I wasn't thinking of myself,
I'm a sure thing. I was betting on you. I've sim-
ply got to gain today, when so much depends on it.

74 THE STRAW

Eileen — ^Yes, I hope you JiShe fciien

hrokerdy and turns away from Am.]

Doctor Simms — [Straightening up,"] All ready,
Doctor.

Stanton — [Nods and glances at his hook — with-
out raising his voice — distinctly.'] Mrs. Abner. \_A
middle-aged woman comes and gets on the scale.
Simms adjusts it to her weight of the previous week
which Stanton reads to him from the book in a low
voice, and weighs her.]

MuERAY — [With a relieved sigh.] They're off.
[Noticing Eileen's downcast head and air of de-
jection.] Here! Buck up, Eileen! Old Lady
Grundy's watching you— and it's your turn in a
second. [Eileen raises her head and forces a fright-
ened smile. Mrs. Abner gets down off the scale with
a pleased grin. She has evidently gained. She rejoins
the group of women, chattering volubly in low tones.
Her exultant ''gained half a pound*^ can he heard.
The other women smile their perfunctory congratur
lations, their eyes absent-minded, intent on their own
worries. Stanton writes down the weight in the
boo A:.]

Stanton — Miss Bailey. [A yotmg girl goes to
the scales.]

Murray — Bailey looks badly, doesn't she?

Eileen — [Her lips trembling.] She's been los-
ing, too.

Murray — ^Well, you*re going to gain today. Re-
member, now!

THE STRAW 76

Eileen — \^With a feeble smile.'] Ill try to obey
your orders. [Miss Bailey gets down off the scales.
Her eyes are full of despondency although she tries
to make a hrave face of ity forcing a laugh as she
joins the women. They stare at her with pitying
looks and murmur consoling phrases,]

EiiJBEN — She's lost again. Oh, I wish I didn't
have to get weighed

Stanton — Miss Carmody. [Eileen starts ner^
vously.]

MuBSAY — [As she leaves Aim.] Remember now!
Break the scales ! [She walks quickly to the scales^
trying to assume an air of defiant indifference. The
balance stays down as she steps up. Eileen's face
shows her despair at this. Simms weighs her and
gifves the poundage in a low voice to Stanton.
Eileen steps down mechanically, then hesitates as
if not knowing where to turn, her anguished eyes
flitting from one group to another.]

MuBBAT — [Savagely.] Damn! [Doctor Stan-
ton writes the figures in his book, glances sharply at
Eileen, and then nods significantly to Mbs. Tubneb
who is standing beside him.]

Stanton — [Calling the next.] Miss Doeffler.
[Another woman comes to be weighed.]

Mbs. Tubneb — Miss Carmody! Will you come
here a moment, please?

Eileen — [Her face growing very pale.] Yes,
Mrs. Turner. [The heads of the different groups
bend together. Their eyes follow Eileen as they

76 THE STRAW

whisper. Mes. Tubneb leads her down froni, left
hind them the weighing of the women cont\
briskly. The great majority have gained. Those
have not have either remained stationary or It
negligible fraction of a pownd. So, as the weig
proceeds, the general air of smiling satisfaction
among the groups of women. Some of them, thei
deal over, go out through the hall doorway by
and threes with suppressed laughter and cha
As they pass behind Eileen they glance at her
pitying curiosity. Doctob Stanton's voice is h
at regular intervals callmg the names in alphabe
order: Mrs. Elbing, Miss Finch, Miss Grimes, .
Haines, Miss Hayes, Miss Jutner, Miss Linot
Mrs. Marim, Mrs. McCoy, Miss McElroy, Miss
son, Mrs. Nott, Mrs. O^Brien, Mrs. Olson, Miss 1
Miss Petrovski, Mrs. Quin/n, Miss Robersi, .
Staitler, Miss linger.']

Mrs. Tuenee — [^Putting her hand on Eele
shoulder — kindly.] You're not looking so
lately, my dear, do you know it?

Eileen — [Bravely.] I feel — ^fine. \_Her eyei
if looking for encouragement, seek Mueeay wl
staring at her worriedly.]

Mes. Tuenee — [^Gently.] You lost weight a^
you know.

Eileen — ^I know — ^but

Mes. Tuenee — This is the fourth week.

Eileen — ^I I know it is

Mes. Tuenee — I've been keeping my eye on

THE STRAW 77

You seem — worried. Are yoQ upset about — some-
'iiing we don't know?

Eileen — ^Quickly.} No, not I haven't slept
:iuch lately. That must be it.

Mbs. Tub NEK — Are you worrying about your
rondition? Is that what keeps you awake?

(Eileen — No.
Me8. Turner — ^You're sure it's not that?
En::£EN^ — ^Yes, I'm sure it's not, Mrs. Turner,
Mrs. Turner — I was going to tell you if you
'ere: Don't do it! You can't expect it to be all
smooth sailing. Even the most favorable cases have
lo expect these little setbacks. A few days' rest in
l»jd will start you on the right trail again.

Eileen — [/n anguish, although she has realized
'^ii teas coming.^ Bed? Go back to bed? Oh, Mrs.
Turner !

Mas, Turner — {^Gentli/.l Yes, my dear, Doctor
Stanton thinks it best. So when you go back to

vour cottage

Eileen — Oh, please — not today — not right away !
Mrs. Tfrner — You had a temperature and a high
pulse yesterday, didn't you realize it? And this
morning you look quite feverish. [^She tries to put
her hand on Eileen's forehead but the latter steps
aieay defengvvely.']

Eileen — ^It's only — not sleeping last night. I
was nervous. Oh, I'm sure it'll go away.

Mrs. Turner — [Consolingly.^ When you lie
still and have perfect rest, of course it will.

78 THE STRAW

Eileen — \_With a longing look over at Mukkay.]
But not today — please, Mrs. Turner.

Mrs. Tuenee — {Looking at her keenly,'] There
is something upsetting you. You've something on
your mind that you can't tell me, is that it?
[Eileen maintains a stvhhom sUence.] But think
— can^t you tell me? [With a kindly smile,'] Vm
used to other people's troubles. I've been playing
mother-confessor to the patients for years now, and
I think I've usually been able to help them. Can't
you confide in me, child? [Eileen drops her eyes
hut remains silent, Mes. Tuenee glances meanr
ingly over at Mueeay who is watching them when'
ever he thinks the matron is not aware of it — a note
of sharp rebuke in her voice.] I think I can guess
your secret, my dear, even if you're too stubborn to
tell. This setback is your own fault. You've let
other notions become more important to you than
the idea of getting well. And you've no excuse for
it. After I had to warn you a month ago, I ex-
pected that silliness to stop instantly.

Eileen — [Her face flushed — protesting,] There
never was anything. Nothing like that has anything
to do with it.

Mrs. Tuenee — [Sceptically,] What is it that
has, then?

Eileen — [Lying determinedly,] It's my family.

They keep writing— and worrying me— and

That's what it is, Mrs. Turner. ~

Mrs. Tuenee — [Not exactly knowing whether to

THE STRAW 79

hdieve this or not — probing the girl with her eyes,']
Your father?

EhiEen — ^Yes, all of them. [Svddenly seeing a
way to discredit all of the matron's suspicions — ex-
cUedlyJ] And principally the young man I'm en-
gaged to — the one who came to visit me several

times

Mks. Tuenee — [Surprised] So — you're engaged?
[Eileen nods, Mes. Tuenee immediately dis-
vdises her suspicions.] Oh, pardon me. I didn't

know that, you see, or I wouldn't [She pats

Eileen on the shoulder comfortingly.] Never mind.
Youll tell me all about it, won't you?

Eileen — [Desperately.] Yes. [She seems about
to go on but the matron interrupts her.]

Mes. Tuenee — Oh, not here, my dear. Not now.
Come to my room — ^let me see — ^I'll be busy all mom-
iiif^sometime this afternoon. Will you do that?

Eileen — ^Yes. [Joyfully.] Then I needn't go
to bed right away?

Mes. Tuenee — No — on one condition. You

mushi't take any exercise. Stay in your recliner all

day and rest and remain in bed tomorrow mommg.

And promise me you will rest and not worry any

more about things we can easily fix up between us.

EkLEEN — ^I promise, Mrs. Turner.

Mes. Tuenee — [Smiling in dismissal.] Very well,

then. I must speak to Miss Bailey. I'll see you this

afternoon.

En^EEN — ^Yes, Mrs. Turner. [The m-atron goes

80 THE STRAW

to the rear where Miss Bailey is sitting with Mrs.
Abneb. She beckons to Miss Bailey who gets up
with a scared look, and they go to the far left cor*
ner of the room. Eileen stands for a moment hesi'
tating — then starts to go to Mubhay, but just at
this moment Fetebs comes forward and speaks to

MUBBAY.]

Petebs — [With his sly twisted grm.'\ Say, Car-
mody musta lost fierce. Did yuh see the Old Woman
handin' her an earful? Sent her back to bed, I
betcha. What d*yuh think?

Mubbaj: — [Impatiently, showmg his dislike J]
How the hell do I know?

Petebs — [Sneermgly.'] Huh, you don't know
nothin' *bout her, I s'pose? Where d'yuh get that
stuff? Think yuh're kiddin' me?

MuBBAY — [With cold rage b^ore which th£ other
slinks away,'] Peters, the more I see of you the bet-
ter I like a skunk ! If it wasn't for other people los-
ing weight you couldn't get any joy out of life,
could you? [Roughly.'] Get away from me! [H0
makes a threatening gesture.]

Petebs — [Beating a snarling retreat.] WaitV see
if yuh don't lose too, yuh stuck-up boob ! [Seeing
that MuBBAY is alone again, Eileen starts toward
him but this time she is^tercepted by Mbs. Abnes
who stops on her way out. The weighing of thi
women is now finished, and that of the men, Tthich
proceeds much quicker, begins.]

DocTOB Stanton — ^Anderson! [AN'DEbson cofne$

THE STRAW 81

to the scales^ The men aJl move down to the left to
wait their turn, with the exception of Mubbat, who
remains by the dining room door^ fidgeting impa-
tientltf, anxious for a word with Eileen.]

Mes. Abneb — [Taking Eileen's arm.l Coming
over to the cottage, dearie?

Eileen — Not just this minute, Mrs. Abner. I
have to wait

Mes. Abnee — ^For the Old Woman? You lost to-
day, didn't you? Is she sendin' you to bed, the old
devil?

Eileen — ^Yes, Fm afraid I'll have ^ j

Mes. Abneb — She's a mean or ^ ain't she? I
gained this week — ^half a pound. Lord, I'm gittin'
fat! All my clothes are gittin' too small for me.
Don't know what I'll do. Did you lose much, dearie?

Eileen — ^Three pounds.

Mes. Abnee — ^Ain't that awful! [Hastening to

Wfll^ up for this thoughtless reTnark.'] All the same,

^at's three pounds! You can git them back in a

Week after you're resting more. You been runnin' a

temp, too, ain't you? [Eileen nods.'\ Don't worry

about it, dearie. It'll go down. Worryin's the

^OTst. Me, I don't never worry none. [She chuck-

let with satisfaction — thsn soberly.'] I just been

taUdn' with Bailey. She's got to go to bed, too, I

gaess. She lost two pounds. She ain't runnin' no

tonp though.

Stanton — ^Barnes! [Another mpn comes to the
cdtesJ]

ai THE STRAW

Mes. Abnek — [In a mytteriout wkUper."]
at Mr, Murray, dearie. Ain't he nerrous today?
don't know as I blame him, either. I heard the dofl
lor said he'd let him go home if he gained today,
is true, d'you know?

Eileen — [DuIIj/.'] I don't know.

Mas, AfiXER^Gosh, I wish it was me! My ol
man's missin* me like tlic dickens, he writes. [Sh
starts to go.'] You'll be over to the cottage in
while, won't you? Me'n' youll have a game of c
sino, eh?

Elleen — [Happt/ at ikU ddiverance.^ Yes, I
be glad to.

Stanton — Cordero! [Mrs. Abneb. goei on
Eileen again starts toward Mueeay but (Ai* tit
Fi-TNN, a yowng fellow with a hrick-colored, homelg
good-natured face, and a skaven-iucked hairciit\
slouches back to Mukrav. Eileen is brought to
halt in frdnt of the table where she stands, her fat
working with nervous strain, clasping and wiclaif
ing her trembling hands.']

Flynn — [Curiousli/.] Say, Steve, what's this l
about the Doc lettin' yuh beat it if yuh gain today
Is it straight goods?

MuHHAV — He said he might, that's all. [/mp*
tientlif.] How the devil did that story get travi
around?

Flynn— [TFifR a grin.] Wha' d'yuh expect wit
this gang of skirts chewin' the fat? Well, here'
hopin' yuh come home a winner, Steve.

THE S*

Mv^AY—lGratefiilly.'] Thanks. [WUh confi-
Jflice.] Oh, I'll gain all right ; but whether he'll let

me go or not [He gkrugi his shoulders.'\

FLrNN-^Make 'em behave. I wisht Stanton'd ask
waivers on me. [TfifA a laugh.^ I oughter gain a
ton today. I ate enough spuds for breakfast to
plant a farm.
Stanton— Fljnn !

Fltun — Me to the plate! [He strides to the
icales.']

MnRRAT — Good luck ! l_He starts to join Eileen
hut Miss Bailet, jeho has fiviihed her talk with Mbb.
TuKNEE, who goes out to the hall, approaches
Eileen at jast this vwinent. Mceeay stops in his
tracks, fwming. He and Eileen exchange a glance
of helpless annoyance."]

Miss Bailey — [Her thin face fuU of the satisfac-
tion of misery finding company — plucks at Eileen's
tleeve.] Say, Carmody, she sent you back to bed,
too, didn't she?

Eileen — [Ahsent-mmdedly.'] I suppose

Miss Bailey — -You suppose? Don't you know?
Of course she did, I got to go, too. [FvXling
Eileen's sleeve.] Come on. Let's get out of here,
t hate this place, don't you?

Stanton — [Calling the next.] Hopper!
Flynn — [Shouts to MuHEAY as he is going out to
\he hall.'] I hit 'cr for a two-bagger, Steve. Come
m now, Bo, and bring me home ! 'Atta boy ! [Grin-

Tting gleefuUy, he slouches out. DocToa Stanto
and alt the patients laugh.^

Miss Bailey — [ITtfA irritating persistence,
Come on, Carmody. You've got to go to bed, tw

Eileen — [At the CTid of her patience — releasm,
her arm from the other's grasp.^ Let me alone, will
jou? I don't have to go to bed now — not till t
morrow morning.

JIiss Bailey — [Despairingly, as if she cotddvl
believe her ears.J You don't have to go to bed?

Eileen — Not now — no.

Miss Bailey — [In a whining Tage.Ji Why not?'
You've been running a temp, too, and I haven't
You must have a pull, that's what ! It isn't fair,
bet you lost more than I did, too ! What right ha*

you got Well, I'm not going to bed if yoo

don't. Wait 'n' see!

Eileen — [Turning away revolted.^ Go awajl'
Leave me alone, please.

Stanton — ^Lo wen stein !

Miss Bailet — [Turns to the hall door, TchiTmig.X
All right for you! I'm going to find out. It isn'fc
square, I'll write home. [She disappears in thf
haUwaT/, MtrKRAY strides over to Eileen whot^
strength seems to have left her and who is leatuafii
weakly against the iable.'\

MuREAY — Thank God — at last ! Isn't it bell —
these fools ! I couldn't get to you. What did C
Lady Grundy have to say to you? I saw her ^vi
me a hard look. Was it about us — the old atjj

THE STRAW 8ft

[Eileen nod» with downcast eyeg.^ What did she
say? Never mind now. You can tell me in a minute.
It's my turn next, [ffig eyei glance toTcard the
tcales-l

EiLEEs — [Intenselif.^ Oh, Stephen, I wish you
wren't going away!

MuKKAT — [EiTcitedlt/.l Maybe I'm not. It's ex-
citing — like gambling — if I win- — -
Stanton — Murray !

Mtireay — Wait here, Eileen, [He goes to the
scales. Eileen keeps her back turned. Her body
stiffcTis rigidly in the intensity of her conflicting emo-
tions. She stares straight ahead, her eyes full of
anguish. Mubkat steps on the scales nervously.
The balance rod hits the top smartly. He has gained.
His face lights up and he heaves a great sigh of re-
lief. Eileen seems to sense this outcome and her
head sinks, her body sags weakly and seems to
shrink to a smaller size. Murkay gets off the scales,
his face beaming with a triumphant smile. Doctor
Stanton smUea and murmurs something to him in a
low voice. MuBHAY nods brightly; then turns back
to Etleen.]

Stanton — Nathan! [Another patient advancet
to the scales."]

MtJRKAY — [Trying to appear casual.] Well —
three rousing cheers ! Stanton told me to come to
his office at eleven. That means a final exam — and
release !

ErLEEN — [{Didly.] So you gained?

86 THE STRAW

Murray — ^Three pounds.

Eileen — ^Funny — ^I lost three. J[With a pitiful
effort at a smile,^ I hope you gained the ones I lost.
l^Her lips tremble.'] So you're surely going away.

Murray — [JIw joy fleeing as he is confronted
with her sorrow — slowly.'l It looks that way,
Eileen.

Eileen — [In a trembling whisper broken hy ris-
ing sobs."] Oh— -Fm so glad — ^you gained — ^the ones

I lost, Stephen So glad! \_She breaks down,

covering her face mth her hands, stifling her sohs*]

Murray — [Alarmed.'] Eileen! What's the mat-
ter? [Desperately,] Stop it! Stanton'U see you!

IThe Curtain Falls']

'ACT n

SCENE TWO

— Midnight of the same day. A croisroadt
•ar the ganatorium. The main road cornea J
ioion forward from the right. A smaller road,
leading dozen from the left, joins it toward left,.
Center.

Dense tcoods rise sheer from the grass and
bramble-grown ditches at the roads' sides. At
the jwnction of the two roads there is a sign-
post, its arms pointing toward the right and
Ihe left, rear. A pile of roimd stones is at the
road comer, left forward. A full moon, riding
lagh overhead, throws the roads into white,
tihadowless relief and masses the woods into
Walls of compact blackness. The trees lean
heavily together, their branches motionless, ijm-
itirred by any trace of wind.
As the curtam rises, Eileen is discovered
inding in the middle of the road, front center,
"Ber face shows white and clear in the bright
noonlight as she stares with anxious expect-
ancy up the road to the left. Her body is fixed
an attitude of rigid immobility as if she were
87

8S THE STRAW

afraid a ilightett moivment would break th
tpell of silence and awaken the unknown,
hat shrunk instinctivelif as far away as she ca
from, the mysterious darkness which rises at th
road's sides like an imprisoning wall, A soun
of hurried footfalls, muffled by the dust, coi
from the road she is watching. She gives
startled gasp. Her eyes strain to identify th
oncomer. Uncertain, trembling mth fright,
she hesitates a second; then darts to the side o
the road and crouches down in the shadow.

Stephen McnttAT comes donm the road frot

the left. He stops by the sign-post and pee

about him. He wears a cap, the peak of whie,

casts his face into shadow. Finally he calls M

a low voice:']

MuEKAY — Eileen !

Eileen — [Coming out quickly from her ftkHn

place — with a glad little cry.l Stephen ! At lasl

[She runs to him as if she were going to fling h

arms about him but stops abashed. He reaches o

and takes her hands.l

MuHRAY — At last? It can't be twelve yet. [fl
leads her to the pile of stones on the left.^ I have^
heard the village clock.

Eileen — I must have come early. It seemed as:
I'd been waiting for ages, I was so anxious-

MuERAT — How your hands tremble! Were yo
frightened?

Eileen-^ [Forcing a smUe.^ A little. The wooc

THE STRAW 89

are so black — and queer looking. I'm all right now.

Mdebay — Sit down. You must rest. [In a tone
of annoyed reproof. 1 I'm going to read jou a lec-
ture, young lady. You shouldn't ever have done

this — running a temp and Good heavens, don't

you want to get well?

Eileen — [Dvlly.'\ I don't know

MuBBAT — [Irritahly.^ You make me ill when
you talk that way, Eileen. It doesn't sound like you
at all. What's come over you lately? Get a grip on
yourself, for God's sake. I was — knocked out —
when I read the note you slipped me after supper.
I didn't get a chance to read it until late, I was so
busy packing, and by that time you'd gone to your
cottage. If I could have reached you any way I'd
have refused to come here, I tell you straight. But
I couldn't — and I knew you'd be here waiting — and
—still, I feel guilty. Damn it, this isn't the thing
for you ! You ought to be in bed asleep. Can't you
look out for yourself?

EiLEEN-^[ifum6^^,] Please, Stephen, don't
scold me.

Mtteeat — How the devil did you ever get the idea
— meeting me here at this ungodly hour?

Eileen— You'd told me about your sneaking out
that night to go to the village, and I thought there'd
I be no harm this one night — the last night.
I MuttKAY — But I'm well. I've been well. It's dif-
ferent. You Honest, Eileen, you shouldn't

lose sleep and tax your strength.

Etz.EZN — Don't Bcold me, please, I'll make i
for it. I'll rest all the time — after you're gone.
just had to see you some way — somewhere whel
there weren't eyes and ears on all sides— when yo
told me after dinner that Doctor Stanton had c
amined you and said you could go tomorrow —
[A clock in tke diitant village hegiaa atrikiag,
Ssshhl Listen.

Mpbkay — That's twelve now. You see I was eai^
[/n a paiue of silence they wait motionlettly uni
the last mournful note diet in the husked woodt.^

Eileen — [7k a stifled voice.1 It isn't tomorro
now, is it? It's today — the day you're going.

MuBBAT — [Something in her voice Tnaking
avert hit face and kick at tke heap of stones on whit
she is sitting — brusquely.^ Well, I hope you t<
precautions so you wouldn't be caught sneaking o

Eii.EEN^I did just what you'd told me you did-
stuffcd the pillows under the clothes so the watd
man would think I was there.

MuKEAY — None of the patients on your pon
saw you leave, did they?

Eileen — No. Thoy were all asleep.

MuKRAT — That's all right, then. I wouldn
trust any of that bunch of women. They'd be onl
too tickled to squeal on you, [Tliere is an tmcot
fortable pause. Murray seems waiting for her i
speak. He looks about htm at the trees, up into ti
moonlit sky, breathing in the fresh night air with
heaithg 'ddight, Eilkks remamt with datencA

THE STRAW

head, ttaring at the road.^ It's beautiful tonight,
isn't it? Worth losing sleep for.

Eileen — [Dvlly.^ Yes. [Ajtother paiue —
fnally »he murmv-rs faintly. J Are you leaving earlj?
MuEEAY — The ten-forty. Leave the San at ten,
I guess.
Eiij:en — You're going homeP

MuHBAY— Home? You mean to the town? No.
But I'm going to see my sisters — ^just to say hello.
I've got to, I suppose. I won't stay more than a
few days, if I can help it,

Eileen — I'm sure — I've often felt — you're un-
just to your sisters. [TfWft conviction.^ I'm sore
they, must both love you.

MuttKAY — [Frowning.'} Maybe, in their own way.
But what's love without a glimmer of understanding
— a nuisance 1 They have never seen the real me
and never have wanted to — that's all.

Eileen — [As if to herself.'] What is — the real

you? [McEEAY kicks at the atones impatiently

without answering. Eileen hastens to change the

mbject.l And then you'll go to New York?

Murray — [Interested at once.} Yes. You bet,

Eileen — And write more?

Murray — Not in New Yorlt;, no. I'm going there
to take a vacation, and live, really enjoy myself for
a while. I've enough money for that as it is and if
the other stones you typed sell — I'U be as rich as

)ckefeller. I might even travel No, I've got

B good with my best stuff first, I'll save the

tr&veUing as a reward, a prize to gain. That'
keep me at it. I know what I'll do. When IVe ha
enough of New York, I'll rent a place In the coun*
try — some old farmhouse — and live alone there and
work. [Loit in his own plans — with ^asure.]
That's the right idea, isn't it?

E11.EEN — [Tri/ing to appear enthused,'\ It ou^t
to be fine for your work. [After a pause.] They're
fine, those stories you wrote here. They're — so rauch
like you. I'd know it was you wrote them even if —
I didn't know,

Murray — [Pleased.'] Wait till you read tJ*
others I'm going to do! [After a slight paatt—
with a good-natured grin.] Here I am talking aboul
myself again ! Why don't you call me down wleo
I start that drivel? But you don't know how good
it is to have your dreams coming true. It'd nui*
an egotist out of anyone,

Eileen— [So(//^.] No. I don't know. Bnt I
love to hear you talk of yours.

McERAY^[TI't(/i an embarrassed laugh.] Thanlw.
Well, I've certainly told you all of them. You're

the only one [He stops and abruptly change!-

the subject.] You said in your note that you hii
something important to tell me. [He sits down he-
aide her, crossing his legs.] Is it about your inter*,
view with Old Mrs. Grundy this afternoon?

Eileen — No, that didn't amount to anything
She seemed mad because I told her so little. I thini
she guessed I only told her what I did so she'd I

THE STRAW

K stay up, maybe — your last day, — and to keep her
from thinking what she did — about us,

Murray — [Quickly, as if fe$ jtriskes to avoid this
iiAject.'\ What is it you wanted to tell me, then?

EllJiKN — [Sadlif.'\ It doesn't seem so important
now, somehow. I suppose it was silly of me to drag
vou out here, just for that. It can't mean anything
to you — much.

Mdrray — [^Encouragingltf.^ How- do you know
it can't?

Eileen — [Slowli/,'] 1 only thought — you might
lie to know.

MuRRAr — [Interestedly.] Know what? What is
itf If I can help

Eileen — No. [After a moment's hesitatio7i.'\ I
"TOte to him this aftemoon.

Mlieray — Him?

t Eileen — Tlie letter you've been advising me to
write.
SIuERAr — [At if the knowledge of this alarmed
''I'm — Juiltmgly.] You mean — Fred NichoUs?
Eileen — Yes.

MuRHAr — [After a pause — u/ncomfortably.l You
mean — you broke it all off?

Eileen — ^Yes — for good. [She looks up at his
averted face. He remains silent. She continues ap-
prehensively.] You don't say anything. I thought
— you'd be glad. You've always told me it was the
honorable thing to do.
MuBKAY — [Gruffly.] I know. I say more than

^THE' ol^R^^T^

my prayers, damn it! [With sudden eagemett.]
Have you maUcd the letter yet?

Eileen— Yes. Wliy?

Murray — [Shortly.^ Humph. Oh — nothing.

Eileen— [ n'»/ A pained disappointment. '\ '
Stephen, you don't think I did wrong, do you —
now — after all you've said?

Murray — [Hurriedly.'] Wrong? No, not if yon
were convinced it was the right thing to do yourself
— if you know you don't love him. But I'd hate to

think you did it just on my say-so. I sliouldn't *

I didn't mean to interfere. I don't know enon^
about your relations for my opinion to count.

Eileen — [Hurt.~\ You know all there is to know.

Murray — I didn't moan — anything like that. I
know you've been frank. But Iiim — I don't know
him. How could I, just meeting liim once? He may
be quite different from my idea. That's what I'm
getting at. I don't want to be unfair to him.

Eileen — [Bitterly scornful.'] You needn't
worry. You weren't unfair. And you needn't
afraid you were responsible for my writing. I'i
been going to for a long time before you ever spoke.

MuHEAT — [With a relieved aigh.~\ I'm glad of
that — honestly, Eileen. I felt guilty. I shouldn't
have knocked him behind his back without knowing
him at all.

Eileen — You said you could read him like a book
from his letters I showed you.

Murrav — [Apologetically.] I know. I'm a fool.

THE STRAW 95

ErLEEN^ — -[^AngrUy.l What makes you so cpnsid-
frate of Fred Nicholls all of a sudden? What you
thought about him was right.

Murray — [Vagu^i/.] I don't know. One makes
mistakes.

Eileen — [Ataertrveli/.l Well, I know ! You
oeedn't waste pity on him. Hell be only too glad
to get my letter. He's been anxious to be free of
me ever since I was sent here, only he thought it
wouldn't be decent to break it off himself while I
*as sick. He was afraid of what people would say
about him when they found it out. So he's just
gradually stopped writing and coming for visits,
md waited for me to realize. And if I didn't, I
bow he'd have broken it off himself the first day I
got home. I've kept persuading myself that, in spite
"f the way he's acted, he did love me as much as he
could love anyone, and that it would hurt him if

I But now I know that he never loved me, that

nt couldn't love anyone but himself. Oh, I don't
'^ate him for it. He can't help being what he is.
And all people seem to be — like that, mostly. I'm
only going to remember that be and I grew up to-
gether, and that he was kind to me then when he
'Wught he liked me — and forget all the rest. [Tfjife
"gitated impatience.'] Oh, Stephen, you know all
this I've said about him. Why don't you admit it?
Vou've read his letters.

MtTKBAY — l^Haltinglif.] Yes, I'll admit that was

f opinion — only I wanted to be sure you'd found

^ for jourself.

EiLKEN — [Defiantly.] Well, I have ! You see tha'
now, don't you?

MuBKAY — Yes; and I'm glad you're free of
for your own sake, I knew he* wasn't the peraon
[TI'tfA an attempt at a joking tone.'] You must gel
one of the right sort — next time.

EiL££N — [Springing to her feet with a erg of
pain.] Stephen ! [He avoids her eyet ri>hich leareh
hia face pleadinglt/.]

AIcaRAY — [Mumbling.] He wasn't good enon^
— to lace your shoes — nor anyone else, either.

EiLEEM — '[With a nervous laugh.] Don't be
silly. [After a pause during which she waits Atw
grUy for some word from htm — with a sigh of de-
spair — faintlff.] Well, Pve told you — all there is.
I might as well go bsck.

MuBRAY — [Not looking at .her — indistinctly.]
Yes. You mustn't lose too much sleep. I'll come to
your cottage in the morning to say good-bye. They'll
pennit that, I guess.

Eileen — [Stands looking at him imploringly, htf
face conwlsed with anguish, but he keeps his eyit
fixed on the rocks at his feet. Finally she seems to
give up and takes a few uncertain steps up the nai
toward the right — in an exhausted whisper.] Good'
night, Stephen.

Mdekay — [His voice choked and husky.'] Good
night, Eileen.

Eileen — [Walks weakly up the road but, as ihl
pastes th^ signpost, she suddenly stops and turvt

^oh

THE STRAW 9T

again at Muabay who has not moved or

lifted hi» eyes, A great shuddering gob shatters her

pait-up emotions. She rums hack to Ml'rray, her

nraw outstretched, with a choking cry.^ Stephen!

^^Uttkray — [Startled, xchirU to face her and finds

^BV" arms thrown arownd his neck — in a terri^ed

^tmw.] Eileen !

Eileen — [^Brokenly.1 I love you, Stephen — ^you!
That's what I wanted to tell ! [S'Ac gases up into
*w eyes, her face transfigured hy the joy and pain
of this abject confession.}

Murray — [Wincing as if this were the thing he
^ad feared to hear.} Eil.een !

ZiLEEK— [Fulling down kts head with fierce
'tretigth and kissing him passionately on the Ups,}
I love you! I will say it! There! [iri(A sudden
knor.'] Oh, I know I shouldn't kiss you! I
mustn't! You're all well — and I

Murray — [Protesting frenziedly.} Eileen! Danm
'■ ! Don't say that ! What do you think I am !
[ih kisses her fiercely two or three times untU she
forces a hand over her mouih.}

EiLEEN^ — [With a hysterically happy laugh,}
^o! Just hold me in your arms— just a little while
~-before

Murray — [His voice treTtibling.} Eileen! Don't

liilk that way! You're it's killing rae. I can't

^tand it!

Eheen — [with soothing tenderness.} Listen,
Jeaf — ^listeo — and you won't aay a word I*Te

so much to say — til] I get through — please, will joi
promise?

Mt'KHAY — [Bftroeen clinched teeth.] Yes —
tiling, Eileon !

Eileen — Then I want to aaj — I know your ae

cret. You don't love me Isn't that it? [Mm

EAY groam.l Ssshh! It's all right, dear. Yoa
can't help what you don't feel. I've guessed yod
didn't — right along. And I've loved you — such i
long time now— always, it seems. And you've sort
of jessed — that I did — didn't you? No, don't
speak! I'm sure you've guessed — only you didnl
want to know — that — did you? — when you didnt
love rae, Tliat's why you were lying — but I saw, 1
knew! Oh, I'm not blaming you, darling. How coul^
I — never! You mustn't look so — so frightened,
,know how you felt, dear. I've — I've watched you.
It was just a flirtation for you at first. Wasn't it!

Oh, I know. It was just fun, and Please don't

look at me bo. I'm not hurting you, am I?
wouldn't for worlds, dear — you know — hurt you-
And then afterwards — you found we could be f
good friends — helping each other- — and you wanted
it to stay just like that always, didn't you? —
know — and then I had to spoil it all — and fall i
love with you — didn't I? Oh, it was stupid —
shouldn't — I couldn't help it, you were so kind an(
— and different— and I wanted to share in your worl
and — and everything. I knew you wouldn't wan'
to know I loved you — when you didn't — and I trio

THE STRAW 99

lard to be fair and hide my love so you wouldn't see
—and I did, didn't I, dear? You never knew till
just lately — maybe not till just today — did you? —
when I knew you were going away so soon — and
muldn't help showing it. You never knew before,
did you? Did you?

Murray — {^Miserably.'] No. Oh, Eileen — Eileen,
I'm so sorry !

EtLEEN — [/n heartbroken protest. J Sorry? Oh
no, Stephen, you mustn't be ! It's been beautiful —
all of it^f or me ! That's what makes your going —
so hard. I had to see you tonight — I'd have gone —
crazy— if I didn't know you knew, if I hadn't made
you guess. And I thought — if you knew about my
writing to Fred — that — maybe — It'd make some
difTerence. [Mubray groans — and she laughs hys-
iericaUy.^ I must have been crazy — to think that —
mustn't I? As if that could — when you don't love
me. Sshh! Please! Let me finish. You mustn't
'eel sad — or anything. It's made me happier than
I've ever been — loving you — even when I did know —
jou didn't. Only now — you'll forgive me telling you
»n this, won't you, dear? Now, it's so terrible to
think I won't see you any more. 111 feel so — with-
out anybody.

MiTRRAY — [BrofrCTiiy.] But ni — come back.
Ind you'll be out soon — and then

Eileen — \Brokenly.^ Sahli! Let me finish.
I'ou don't know how alone I ara now. Father — i
lell marry that housekeeper — and the children —

100 THE STRAW

they Ve forgotten me. None of them need me anj
more, TheyVe found out how to get on without
me — and I'm a drag — dead to them — ^no place for
me home any more — and they'll be afraid to have
me back — afraid of catching — ^I know she won*t
want me back. And Fred — ^he's gone — ^he never
mattered, anyway. Forgive me dear — ^worrying yoa
— only I want you to know how much you've meant ^
to me — ^so you won't forget — ever — after you*ve
gone.

MuEEAY — [In grief-stricken tones. "l Forget?
Eileen ! I'll do anything in God*s world

Eileen — ^I know — you like me a lot even if you
can't love me — don't you? {His arms tighten abofU
her as he bends down and forces a kiss on her lips
again.l Oh Stephen! That was for good-bye. You
mustn't come tomorrow morning. I couldn't bear
having you — ^with people watching. But youTl write
after — often — ^won't you? [Heartbrokenlf/.'] Oh,
please do that, Stephen!

MuRKAY. — ^I wiU! I swear! And when you get
out I'll — ^well — I'll find something — {He kisses her
again. ]

Eileen — {Breaking away from him with a quick
movement amd stepping back a few feet.'\ Good-bye
darling. Remember me — and perhaps — you'll find
out after a time — 111 pray God to make it so ! Ohf
what am I saying? Only — I'll hope — ^I'll hope — ^till
I die!

MuERAY — {In angtdsh.'] Eileen !

THE STRAW 101

£rLKBN — [Her breath coming in tremtdotu heaves
.of her hosom.'^ Remember, Stephen — if ever you want
i— 111 do anything — anything you want — ^no matter
[liiiat — ^I don't care — there's just you and — don't

liate me, dear. I love you — ^love you — remember!

jShe sudderdt/ turns and rwns away up the road."]

MiT&BAT — ^Eileen ! [He starts to rwn after her hut
\0tops hy the signpost and stamps on the groiund
^ furiously, his fists clenched in impotent rage at him-
iMelf and at fate^, He curses hoarsely."] Christ!

[TJie Curtain FaUsI

BcsKS — Four months later. An isolation room at
the infirmary with a sleeping porch at the right
of it. Late afternoon of a Sunday tojcard the
end of October. The room, extending two-
thirds of the distance from left to right, is, for
^_ reasons of space economy, scantily furnished
^B ttdth the bare necessities — a bureau with mirror
^Vtn *A« left comer, rear — two straight-backed
^^ chairs — a table with a glass top in the center.
Th^ floor is varnished hardwood. The walls
and furniture are painted white. On the left,
forward, a door to the hallway. On the right,
rear, a double glass door opening on the porch.
Farther front two windows. The porch, a
tcreened-in continuation of the room, contains
only a single iron bed painted white, and a
amaU table placed beside the bed.

The woods, the leaves of the trees rich in their
autumn coloring, rise close about this side of
the Infirmary. Their branches almost touch
the porch on the right. In the rear of the porch
they have been cleared away from the building
, for a narrow space, and through this opening
105

\ THE STRAW

the diitant hilU can be teen with the tree tof
glowing in the lutUight,

At the curtain riiex, Eileen is discovered l^
ing in the bed on the porch, propped up int
a half-sitting position hy piUowa wider her bat
and head. She seems to have grown much thii
jMff. Her face is pale and drawn with del
hollows under her cheek-bones. Her eyes c
duU and lusterlest. She ganes straight befot
her into the wood with the ungceing stare e
apathetic indifference. The door from the h
in the room behind her is opened and Miss Hou
ard enters followed by Bill Carmody, Mrs. Bren
nan, and Mary, Carmody's manner is unwovt
edly sober and suhdued. This air of respee
able sobriety is further enhanced by a blot
svit, glaringly new and stiffly pressed, a m
black derby hat, and shoes polished like a rm
ror. His expression is full of a bitter, if saj
pressed, resentment. His gentility is evidenti
forced upon him in spite of himself and eorri
spondingly irksome. Mrs. Brennan is a t(A
stout woman of fifty, lusty and loud-voiced, t
a broad, smib-nosed, florid face, a large mou^
the upper Up darkened hy a suggestion of it
tache, and little round blue eyes, hard aiid ret
less with a continual fuming irritation.
is got up regardless in her ridiculous Sundai
best. Mary appears tall and skinny-legged in
starched, outgrown frock. The aweetnets i

THE STRAW lOT

lier face has disappeared, giving waif to a hang-
dog aullennesB, a stubborn silence, with svlky,
■furtive glances of rebellion directed at her step-
mother.

W Miss Howabd — [Pointmg to the porefi,] She'i
out there on the porch.

Mb5. Brennan — [TFiift dignity.^ Thank yon,
ma'am.

Miss Howabd — [TFiiA a searching glance at ihtf
risitors as if to appraise their intentions.'] Eileen's
been very sick lately, you know, so be careful not to
worry her about anything. Do your best to cheer
ber up.

Caemody — [^Mournfully.] We'll try to put life
in her spirits, God help her. [With an wncertain
look at Mrs. Brennan.] Won't wc, Maggie?

Mrs. Beennan — [Turning sharply on Mary who
has gone over to exainMie the things on the hurewti,]
Come away from that, Mary. Curiosity killed a cat.
Don't be touchin' !ier tilings. Remember what I told
you. Or is it admirin' your mug in the min-or yoa
are? [Turning to Miss Howard as Mary vwves
away from the bureau, hanging her head— shortly. "]
Don't you worry, ma'am. We won't trouble Eileeii
at all.

Miss Ho wahd— Another thing. You mustn't say
anything to her of what Miss Gilpin just told yon
about her being sent away to the State Farm in a

^ J

108 THE STRAW

few days. Eileen isn't to know till the very last
kninute. It would only disturb hen

Cabmodt — l^HastUy.'] We'll not say a word of it.

Miss Howaed — [Turning to the haU door.^ Thank
you. [She goes out, shutting the door.']

Mes. Beennan — [Angrily.'] She has a lot of im-
pudent gab, that one, with her don't do this and
don't do that! It's a wonder you wouldn't speak
up to her and shut her mouth, you great fool, and
you pay in' money to give her her job. [Disgust-
edly,] You've no spunk in you.

Caemody — [Placatingly.] Would you have me
raisin' a shindy when Eileen's leavin' here in a day
or more? What'd be the use?

Mes. Beennan — In the new place she's goin' you'll
tiot have to pay a cent, and that's a blessing! It's
small good they've done her here for all the money
they've taken. [Gazing about the room critically,]
It's neat and clean enough; and why shouldn't it,
a tiny room and the lot of them nothing to do all
day but scrub. [Scomfidly.] Two sticks of chairs
and a table I They don't give much for the money.

Caemody — Catch them! It's a good thing she's
clearin' out of this and her worse ofF after them
curin' her eight months than she was when she came.
Shell maybe get well in the new place.

Mes. Beennan — [Indifferently.] It's Grod's will,
what'U happen. [Irritably.] And I'm thinkin' it's
His punishment she's under now for having no heart
in her and never writin' home a word to you or the

THE STrIw 109

cluldren In two months or more. If the doctor
hadn't wrote us fiimself to come see her, she was
Bick, we'd have been no wiser.

Cakmodv — Wliisht! Don't be blamin' a sick girl.

iLiRY — [WAo has drifted to one of the windows
at right — curiously.'} There's somebody in bed out
there. I can't see her face. Is it Eileen?

Mss. Beennan — Don't be goin' out there till I
tell you, you imp ! I must speak to your father first,
[Camiag closer to him and lowering her voice.} Are
Jou going to tell her about it?

CAaMony — \^Pretending igtwrance."] About what?

Mes. Beennan — About what, indeed ! Don't pre-
tend you don't know. About our marryin* two weeks
Wtt, of course. Wliat else?

CiKMODY — [ Uncertainly, "} Yes — I disremem-
iiered she didn't know. I'll have to tell her, surely,

Mes. Bhennan — [Flaring up.~\ You speak like
vou wouldn't. Is it shamed of me you are? Are
yoa afraid of a slip of a girl? Well, then, I'm not!
I'll tell her to her face soon enough,

Carmodt — [Angrjf in his turn — assertiveli/.l
^'oiill not, now ! Keep your mouth out of this and
Tour rough tongue ! I tell you I'll tell her.

Mas. Beennan— [S'flfis^ec?.] Let's be going out
to her, then, {They move toward the door to the
portL] And keep your eye on your watch. We
niiistii't miss the train. Come with us, Mary, and
rtmtmlier to keep your mouth shut. [They go out
on (fie porch and stand just outside the door wait-

110 THE STRAW

ing for Eileen to notice them; hut the girl in bed con-
tinues to stare into the woods, oblivious to their
presence,"]

Mes. Beenann — l^N^ging Caemobt with her
elbow — in a harsh whisper.] She don't see us. It's a
dream she's in with her eyes open. Glory be, it's
bad she's lookin'. The look on her f ace'd frighten
you. Speak to her, you ! {EHeen stirs wneasUy as if
this whisper had disturbed her unconsciously.]

Caemody? — {Wetting his lips and clearing his
throat huskily.] Eileen.

Eileen — [Startled^ turns and stares at them with
frightened eyes. After a pause she ventures wncer^
tainly as if she were not sure but what these figures
might be creatures of her dream.] Father. {Her eyes
shift to Mes. Beennan's face and she shudders.]
Mrs. Brennan.

Mes. Beennan — {Quickly — in a voice meant to
be kindly.] Here we are, all of us, come to see you.
How is it you're feelin' now, Eileen? {While she is
talking she advances to the bedside^ followed by
Caemody, and takes one of the sick girVs hands in
hers. Eileen withdraws it as if stu/ng and holds it
out to her father. Mrs. Brennan^s face flushes
angrily and she draws back from the bedside.]

Caemody — {Moved — with rough tenderness pat^
ting her hand.] Ah, Eileen, sure it's a sight for
sore eyes to see you again ! {He bends down as if to
kiss her, but, struck by a sudden fear, hesitates,
straightens himself, and shamed by the trnderstand'

THE STRAW 111

ffeff in Eileen's eyes, growt red and stammers con-
fusedly.T^ How are jou now? Sure it'a the picture
of health jou're lookin'. {^Eileen sighs and turns
her eyes away from him with a resigned sadness.l

Mas. Beennan — ^What are you standm' there for
like a stick, Mary? Haven't jou a word to say
to your sister?

Eileen — [Twisting her head around and se^g
Mary for the first time — mth a glad cTy.'\ Mary!
I — why I didn't see you before ! Come here. [Mary
approaches gingerly tcith apprehensive side glances
at Mrs. Brennan who watches her grimly. Eileen's
arms reach out for lier hungrily. She grasps her
about the waist and seems trying to press the un-
wUling child to her breast.'\

MAfiY — [Fidgetting nervously — suddenly in a
frightened whine.J Let me go ! [EUeen releases her,
looks at her face dasedly for a second, then falls
back limply with a little moan and shuts her eyes.
Mary, who has stepped back a pace, remains fixed
there as if fascinated mth fright by her sister's face.
She stammers.^ Eileen — you look so — so funny.

Eileen — [Without opening her eyes — in a dead
Tfoice,] You, too! I never thought you — Go away,
please.
L Mas. Bkennan — [With satisfaction.^ Come here
■ko me, Mary, and don't be botherin' your sister.
[jlfary avoids her step-nwther but retreats to the
far end of the porch where she stands shrunk back

IIS

THE STRAW

agaititt the wall, her eyes pred on EUeen with thgM
samr ftuchutted horror.^ m

Carmody — [After an uncomfortable pause, forc^M
ing himself to speak.'] Is the pain bad, Eileen? fl

Bii-EEN — [Didly — without oyening her eyes.')im
There's no pain. [There is another pause — fft^nl
she murmurs indifferent! j/.l There are chairs iam
the room yoa can bring out if you want to sit down.fl

Mrs. Brennan — [Sharply.'] Wi;'ve not time to
be sittin'. We've the train back to catch, M

Eileen — [In the same lifeless voice.] It's a dis*!
agreeable trip. I'm sorry you had to come. l

Cakmody — [FighttTig agai-nst an oppression he
cannot wnderstand, bursts into a flood of words.]
Don't be talking of the trip. Sure we're glad to
take it to get a sight of you. It's three months
since I've had a look at you and I was anxious.
Why haven't you written a line to us? You could
do that without trouble, surely. Don't you ever
think of us at all any more? [He waits for an an-
swer but Eileen remains s3ent with her eyes closed.
Carmody starts to walk up and down talking with
an air of desperation.] You're not asking a bit
of news from home. I'm thinkin' the people out
here have taken all the thought of us out of your
head. We're all well, thank God. I've another
good job on the streets from Murphy and one that'll
last a long time, praise be! I'm needin' it surely,
with all the expenses — but no matter, Billy had a
raise from his old skinflint of a boss a month back.

THE STRAW 113

He's gettin' seven a week now and proud as a turkey.
He was comin' out with us today but he'd a date with

his girl. Sure, he's got a girl now, the young bucko !
What d'you think of him? It's old Malloy's girl
he's after — the pop-eyed one with glasses, you re-
member — as ugly as a blind sheep, only be don't
think so. He said to give you his love, [Eileen
ttirs and sighs wearily, a frown appearing for an
instant on her forehead,^ And Tom and Nora was
comin' out too, but Father Fitz had some doin's or
other up to the school, and he told them to be there,
so they wouldn't come with us, but they sent their
love to you too. They're growin' so big you'd not
know them. Tom's no good at the school. He's like
Billy was, I've had to take the strap to him often.
He's always playin' hooky and roamin' the streets.
And Nora — [With pride.} There's the divil for you!
Up to everything she is and no holdin' her high
spirits. As pretty as a picture, and the smartest
girl in her school, Father Fitz says. Am I lyin',
Maggie?

Mrs. Bhennan— [Grwrffirinp^y.] She's smart
enough — and too free with her smartness.

Caemody — [^Pleased.'] Ah, don't be talkin'!
She'll know more than the lot of us before she's
grown even. [He pauses in his walk and stares down
at EixEEN, frowning.'] Are you sick, Eileen, that
you're keepin' your eyes shut without a word out
of you ?

Eileen — [^Wearily.'] No. I'm tired, that's all.

Caemody — [Reniming hia walk.'} And who els
is tliere, let me tliink? Oh, Marj — she's the sam
as ever, jou can §ee for jourself.

Eileen— [Bii(frij(.] The same? Oh, no!

Cabmody — She's grown, you mean? I suppose
You'd notice, not seeing her so long? [He can tkwii
of nothing else to tay but walki up and down witli
a restless, uneasjf expresgion.']

Mbs, Brennan — [Sharply.} What time is
gettin'?

Cabmody — [Fumbles for his trafcft.] Half paaf
four, a hit after.

Mas, Brennas — We'll have to leave soon. It's i
long jaunt down that hill in that buggj. [Sh^
catches his eye artd makes violent signs to him tt
tell Eileen what he has come to (eff.]

Cabmodt- — [After an uncertain pause — clenchitu
his fists and clearing his throat.} Kileen.

Eileen — Yes.

CARSiony — [Irritably.} Can't you open your eya
on me? It's like talkin' to myself I am?

EiLESN — [Looking at him — dully.} What is iti

Carmody — [Stammering — avoiding her glance.}
It's this, Eileen — me and Maggie — Mrs. Brennan
that is — we

Eileen — [IVithout surprise.} You're going i
marry her?

Cabmody — £W»iA an effort.} Not goin' to. It's
done.

Eileen — [Without a trace of feeling.} Oh,

THE STRAW 115

you've been married already? [Tftt/wjuf further
comment, she closes her eyes.^

Carmodt — Two weeks back we were, by Father
Fitz, [He stands staring down at his daughter, irri-
tated, perplexed and confownded by her silence, look-
ing as if he longed to shake her.}

Mhs. Brennan — [Angry at the lack of enthitsi-
atm, shown by Eileek.] Let us get out of this. Bill.
We're not wanted, that's plain as the nose on your
face. It's little she's caring about you, and Uttlc
thanks she has for all you've done for her and the
money you've spent.

Carmody — [With a note of pleading.} Is that a
I proper way to be treatin' your father, Eileen, after
[ what I've told jou? Have you no heart in you
I at all? Is it nothin' to you you've a good, kind
\ woman now for mother?

Eileen — [Fiercely, Kef eyes fashing open on
I him.} No, No! Never!

Mbs. Brennan — [Plucking at Carmodt's elbow.
He stands looking at Eileen helplessly, his mouth
i, a guilty flush spreading over his face,} Come
i of here, you big fool, you! Is it to listen to
alts to your livin' wife you're waiting? Am I
I be tormented and you never raise a hand to stop

jr?

■Caehodt — [Tummg on her threateningly.} Will
I shut your gab?

EiLEKN — [TTifA a moan.} Oh, go away. Father!
«se! Take her away!

116

THE STRAW

Mk8, Bbeknak — [Putting at his orm.] Take me
away this secood or I'll go on without you and
never speak again to you till the day I die!

Casmody — [Puthei her violently away from him
— raging, hia fist uplifted.] Shut your gab, Tin
saying!

Mhs. Brennan — The divil mend you and yours
then! I'm leavin* you, [She starts for the door.]

Carmody — [HaatUi/.l Wait a bit, Maggie. I'm
comin*. [She goes into the room, slamming the door,
bnt once inside she stands slUl, trying to listen.
Cabmody glares down at his daughter's pale twitch-
ing face with the closed eyes. Finally he croaks in
a whining tone of fear.] Is your last word a cruel
one to Die this day, Eileen? [She remains silent. .
His face darkens. He turns and strides out of the
door. Mary darts after him with a frightened cry '
of "Papa." Eileen covers her face with her hands
and a shudder of relief runs over her body.]

Mr8. Beennan — [As Carmody enters the room —
tn a mollified tone.] So you've corao, have you?
Let's go, then? [Caemody stands looking at her ti
silence, his expression fuU of gloomy rage,
bursts out impatiently.] Are you comin' or are jai
goin' back to her? [She grabs Mary's arm am
pushes her toward the door to the halt,] Are yJ
comin' or not, I'm asking?

Caemody — [Somberly — as if to himself.] Thei
something wrong in the whole of this — that I cai
make out, [ With sudden fury he brandishes his fUm

THE STRAW 117

as though defying someone and growls threaten-
ingly. '\ And I'll get drunk this night — dead, rotten
drunk! [He seems to detect disapproval in Mbb.
Brennan's face for he shakes his fist at her and
repeats like a solemn oath."] I'll get drunk this
night, I'm sayin'! I'll get drunk if my soul roasta
for it — and no one in the whole world ia strong
enough to stop me! [Mrs. Bkennan turns front
him Toith a disgusted shrug of her shoulders and
hustles Mart out of the door. Carmody, after a
second's pause, folloras them. Eileen lies still, look-
ing out into the woods with empty, desolate eyes.
Miss Howard comes into the room from the hall and
goes to the porch, carrying a glass of mUk in her
hand.']

Miss Howard — Here's your diet, Eileen. I for-
got it until just now, Sundays are awful days,
aren't they? They get me all mixed up in mj work,
with all these visitors around. Did you have a nice
visit with your folks?

Eileen — [Forcing a smtZe.] Yes.

Misa Howard — You look worn out. I hope they
didn't worry you over home aifairs?

Eileen— No. [She sips her milk and sets it back
on the table with a shudder of disgust."]

Misa Howard — [With a smUe."] What a face!
You'd think you were taking poison.

Eileen — I hate it! [With deep passion.} I
wish it was poison !

Mias Howard — [Jokingly.] Oh, come now! That

118

THE STRAW

isn't a nice way to feel on the Sabbath, [TFi(ft i
meaning smile.] I've some news that'll cheer yoll
up, I bet. \^Archly.'\ Guess who's here on a visitl

Eileen — [Startled — m a frighteiied wkisper.M
Who?

Miss Howard — Mr, Murray. [Efleek clotei I
eyes wmcingly for a moment and a shadoTo of pan
comes over her face.^ He just came about the tir
your folks did. I saw him for a moment, not to spea]
to. He was going to the main building — to see Doe*
tor Stanton, I suppose. [Beaming — with a certain^
cujiosity.] Wliat do you think of that for newa?J

Eileen — [Trying to conceal her agitation am
assume a casual tone.^ He must have come to be e
a mined.

Miss Howaed — [IVifft a meaning laugh.] Oll|
I'd hardly say that was his main reason. He dot
look much thinner and very tired, though. I supi
pose he's been working too hard. [In businets-lik
tones,'] Well, Fve got to get back on the job. [Si
turns to the door calling back jokingly.] He'll 1
in to see you of course, so look your prettiest. [S^l
goes out and shuts the door to the porch. Eilebd i
gives a frightened gasp and struggles up in bed at
if she wanted to call the nurse to return. Then she
lies back in a state of great nervous excitement,
twisting her head with eager, fearful glances toward
the door, listening, clasping and unclasping Iter thin
fingers on the white spread. As Misa Howaed waUci
across the room to the haU door, it is opened and

THE STRAW

Stephen Mueeay enters. A great change is visible
in his face. It is much thinner and the former healthy
tan hus faded to a saUow pallor. Puffy shadows of
sleeplessness and dissipation are marked under his
heavy-lidded eyes. He is dressed in a well-fitting,
expensive, dark suit, a white shirt with a soft collar
and bright-colored tie.']

Miss Howaed — \^TVith pleased surprise, holding
out her hand,"] Hello, Mr. Murray,

MuBKAY — [^Shaking her hand — with a forced
pleasantness.'] How are jou. Miss Howard?

Miss Howaud — Fine as ever. It certainly looks
natural to see you around here again — not that I
hope you're here to stay, though. [IV»(fe a smile.^
I suppose you're on your way to EHeen now. Well,
I won't keep you, I've oodles of work to do. [She
opens the hall door. He starts for the porch.^ Oh,
I was forgetting — Congratulations ! I've read those
stories — all of us have. They're great. We're all
so proud of you. You're one of our graduates, you
know.

MuHEAT — [Indifferentli/.'] Oh, — that stuff.
Miss Howabd — [Gaily.'] Don't be so modest.
Well, se^ you later, I hope.

MuHEAT — Yea. Doctor Stanton invited me to

. Btay for supper and I may

Mias HowABD — Fine! Be sure to! [She goes

mVut. McREAT Tealks to porch door and steps out.

He finds Eileen's eyes waiting for him. As their

eyes meet she gasps invohintarily and he stops short

180 THE STRAW

»w his tracks. For a moment they remain looking at
each other in ailence.l

Eileen — '[Dropping her eyes — faintly.'] Stephen.

MtiKUAY — [Much moved, strides to her bedside
and takes her hands awkwardly.] Eileen. [Then
after a second's pause in which he searches her face
and is shocked by the change Slness has made — anof-
iouslif.] How are you feeling, Eileen? [He grows
confused by her gaze amd his eyes shift from hers,
which search his face with wUd yearning.^

Eileen — [Forcing a smUc.] Oh, I'm all rig'ht.
[Eagerly.] But you, Stephen P How are you?
[Excitedly.] Oh, it's good to see you again! [Her
eyes continue fixed on his face pleadingly, question^
ingly.]

MtTnBAY — [Haltingly.] And it's sure great to see
you again, Eileen, [He releases her hand and tamt
away.] And I'm fine and dandy. I look a little
done up, I guess, but that's only the result of too
much New York.

Eileen — [Sensing from his manner that whatever^
she has hoped for from his visit is not to be, sinki
back on the pillows, shutting her eyes hopelessly,
and cannot control a sigh of pain.]

Meterat — [Turning to her avj^iotisly.] What'a
the matter, Eileen? You're not in pain, are you?

Eileen — [Wearily.] No.

MnBKAY — You haven't been feeling badly lately^
have you? Your letters suddenly stopped — ^not i
line for the past three weeks — and I

Eileen — {^Bitterly.'] I got tired of writing and
never getting anj answer, Steplien.

MuKKAT — \^Shame-faced.] Come, Eileen, it wasn't
as bad as that. You'd think I never — and I did
write, didn't I?

Eileen — Right after you left here, you did, Ste-
phen. Lately

MuKKAY — I'm sorry, Eileen. It wasn't that I
didn't mean to — but — in New York it's so hard,
You start to do one thing and something else inter-
rupts you. You never seem to get any one thing
done when it ought to be. You can understand that,
can't you, Eileen?

Eu-EEN — [Sadly.'l Yes. I understand every-
thing now.

MuRaAY — [Offcnded.'\ 'What do you mean by ev-
erjrthing? You said tliat so strangely. You mean

you don't believe [But she remains xUent with

her eyes shut. He frowns and takes to pacing up and
down beside the bed.'\ Why have they got you stuck
out here on this isolation porch, Eileen?

Eileen — [Dully.^ There was no room on the
main porch, I suppose.

MoKRAY — You never mentioned in any of your
letters

Eileen — It's not very cheerful to get letters full
of sickness. I wouldn't like to, I know,

MrBEAY— [Huri.] That isn't fair, Eileen. You

know I How long have you been back in the

Infirmary P

EiLSBM — About a month.

MoKBAT — [Shocked.'\ A month! Bat you wen
up and about — on exercise, weren't jou — ^befora
that?

EiLEEij — No. I had to stay in bed while I waa
at the cottage.

MuERAT — You mear^-cvor since that time thej
sent you back — the day before I left?

Eileen — Yes.

Mpbeay — But I thought from the cheery tone of
your letters that you were

EiLKEN — [[/nfajiZy.] Getting better? I
Stephen. I'm strong enough to be up now but Dotf
tor Stanton wants me to take a good long rest thii
time so that when I do get up again I'll be sure-
[Skc breaks off impatiently.] But don't let's taftj
about it. I'm all right. [Murray glances doTim ol
her face worriedly. She change t the subject,^
You've been over to see Doctor Stanton, haven't
you?

MoREAT — Yes.

Eileen — Did he examine you?

McBHAT — Yes, [Carelfssly.^ Oh, he found i
O.K. I'm fine and dandy, as I said before.

Eileen — I'm glad, Stephen. [After a peaae.]
TeU about yourself — what you've been doing. You'vi
written a lot lately, haven't you?

McHRAT — [^Frowning.'] No. I haven't been abb
to get down to it — somehow. There's so little tim
to yourself once you get to know people in New

THE STRAW 128

Fork. The sale of the stories you typed put me OB
easy street as far as nionej goes, so I've felt no

need [He laughs weakli/.] I guess Pm one

of those who have to get down to hard pan before
they get the kick to drive them to hard work.

Eileen — [^Surpriied.'] Was it hard work writ-
ing them up here? You used to seem so happy just
in doing them.

MtTEEAT — I was — ^happier than I've been before
or afterward. [CynicdUy.^ But — I don't know —
it was a new game to me then and I was chuck full
of illusions about the glory of it. [He laughs half-
heartedly.'] Now I'm hardly a bit more enthusiastic
over it than I used to be over newspaper work. It's
like everything else, I guess. When you've got it,
you find you don't want it.

Eileen— [Loofringr at him leondermgly — dis-
turbed.^ But isn't just the writing itself worth
while?

Ml'rkay — [As if suddenly ashamed of himself —
quickly.] Yes. Of course it is, I'm talking like a
fool. I'm sore at everything because I'm dissatisfied
with ray own cussedness and laziness — and I want to
pass the buck. \^With a smile of cheerful confidence.]
It's only a fit. Ill come out of it all right and get
down to brass tacks again,

Eileen — [With an encouraging smile.] That's
the way you ought to feel. It'd be wrong — I've read
the two stories that have come out so far over and
over. They're fine, I think. Every line in them

THE STRAW

sounds 1!ke jou, and at the same time sounds naturaj
and like people and tilings you see every day. Et
erybody thinks they're fine, Stephen.

MuREAY — [Pleased biit pretending cynicisia.
Tlien they must be rotten, [Then with aelf-a
ance-l Well, I've plenty more of those stories ii
head. Every time I think of my home town thei
seems to be a new story in someone I've known the«
[Spiritcdly-I Oh, I'll pound them out sometin
when the spirit moves ; and I'll make them so mud
better than what I've done so far, you won't recog
nizc them. I feel it's in me to do it. ^^Smithig,'
Dam it, do you know just talking about it make
me feel as if I could sit right down now and start i
on one. Is it the fact I've worked here before —
is it seeing you, Eileen? [GratefuUif.J I really I
lieve it's you. I haven't forgotten how you helpM
me before.

Eileen — [/n a tone of potn,] Don't, Stephe
I didn't do anything.

Murray — [Eagerly.^ Yes, you did. You mat
it possible. I can't tell you what a help you wer
And since I've left the San, I've looked forward I
your letters to boost up my spirits. When I fe
down in the mouth over my own idiocy, I used to p
read them, and they always were good medieine.
can't tell you how grateful I've felt, honestly !

Eileen — [Faintly.'] You're kind to say so, 51
phen — but it was nothing, really.

MuBEAY — And I can't tell you how I'v

THE 8THAW 1«5

those letters for the past three weeks. They left a
big hole in things. I was worried about you — not
having heard a word. \^With a smile.'] So I came
to look you up.

Eileen — {^Faintly. Forcing an answering Kntlc.]
Well, you see now I'm all right.

'M.v^B.AY— {Concealing his doubt.] Yes, of course
you are. Only I'd a dam sight rather see you up
and about. We could take a walk, then — through
the woods. [A wince of pain shadows Eileen's face.
She closes her eyes. Mueeav continues softly, after
a pause.] You haven't forgotten that last night —
out there — Eileen?

Eileen — [Her lips trembling — trying to force a
laugh.] Please don't remind me of that, Stephen. I
was so silly and so sick, too. My temp was so high
it must have made me — completely crazy — or I'd
never dreamed of doing such a stupid thing. My
head must have been full of wheels because I don't
remember anything I did or said, hardly.

McaBAY^[Hw pride taken down a peg by this —
in a hurt tone.] Oh! Well^I haven't forgotten
and I never will, Eileen, [^Then his face clears up
na if a weight had been taken off his conscience.]
WcU^I rather thought you wouldn't take it
seriously — afterward. You were all up in the air
that night. And you never mentioned it in your

letters

Eileen — [^Pleadingly.] Don't talk about it!
Forget it ever happened. It makes me feel —

IBE STRAW

[with a half-kysterical laugh] — ^like a foolll

MuEKAY— [irorrifrf.] AU right, Eileen. I won't, f
Don't get worked up over notliing. That isn't rest- '
ing, you know. [Looking down at her cloxed eyes-
aoUcitously.'] Perhaps all my talking has tired you
out? Do you feci done up? Why don't jou try and
take a nap now?

Eileen — [DuUy.'] Yes, I'd like to sleep. J

Mksbay — \_Clagps her harids gentli/.] I'll leave ]
you then. I'll drop back to say good-bye and stay '
awhile before I go. I won't leave until the last
train. [As she doesn't anawer.^ Do you hear,
Eileen?

EriEEN — [WeaJclt/.'] Yes. You'll come back —
to say good-bye,

McRRAy — Yes. Ill be back sure. [He presses
her hand and after a kindly glance of sympathy
down at her face, tip-toes to the door and goes into
the room, shutting the door behind him. When she
hears the door shut Eii-een struggles up in bed and
stretches her arms after him with an agonised sob-
"Stephen!" She hides her face in her hands and sob^
brokenly. Murray walks across to the hall door ant
is about to go out when the door is opened and MnfT
Gilpin enters.^

Miss Gilpin — \^Hurriedly.^ How do you do, Mr. i
Murray. Doctor Stanton just told me you weM
here,

Murray — [As they shake hands — smS,ing.'\ Hoi
are you, Miss Gilpin?

Miss Gilpin — He said he'd examined you, and
that you were O.K.' I'm glad. [Glajicing at him
keenly.~\ You've been talking to Eileen?

MuKKAT — Just left her this second. She wanted
to sleep for a while.

Miss Gilpin- — {^Wonderingly.^ Sleep? [Then
hurriedly.] It's too bad. I wish I'd known you were
here sooner. I wanted very much to talk to you
before you saw Eileen. You see, I knew you'd pay
us a visit sometime. [irifA a worried smile.] I still
think I ought to have a talk with you.

MraRAY — Certainly, Miss Gilpin.

Mi.ss Gilpin — [Takes a chair and places it near
the hall door.'\ Sit down. She can't hear us here.
Goodness knows this is hardly the place for confi-
dences, but there are visitors all over and it'll have
to do. Did you close the door tightly? She mustn't
hear me above all. [She goes to the porch door and
peeks out for a moment; then comes back to hint with
flaihing ej/es.'\ She's crying ! What have you been
saying to her? Oh, it's too late, I know! The
fools shouldn't have permitted you to see her before

I What has happened out there? Tell me!

I must know.

MuKSAY — [Stammering.'^ Happened? Nothing.
She's crying? Why Miss Gilpin — you know I
wouldn't hurt her for worlds.

Miss Gilpin — [More calmlt/.] Intentionally, I
know you wouldn't. But something has happened.
\^Tken brisMt/.] We're talking at cross purposes.

Since you don't seem iccliiied to coofide in me, I'
have to in you. You noticed how badly she looks
didn't you?

MuEHAY — Yes, I did.

Miss Gilpin — [Gravely,'} She's been going down'
hill steadily — [meaningly} — ever since j-ou left.
She's in a very serious state, let me impress you with
that. We've all loved her, and felt so sorry for he|
and admired her spirit so — that's the only reasod
she's hcen allowed to stay here so long after her timet
We've kept hoping she'd start to pick up — in an-
other day — in another week. But now that's all
over. Doctor Stanton has given up hope of her
improving here, and her father is unwilling to pay
for her elsewhere now ho knows there's a cheapet
place — the State Farm. So she's to be sent there i
a day or so.

MuKEAY — [Springing to his feet — horrified.}
the State Farm!

Miss Gilpin — Her time here is long past. Ya
know the rule — and she isn't getting better.

McEKAT — [AppaUed} That means — ^1

Miss Gilpin— [For c»bi^.] Death! That's i
it means for her !

MuBHAY — {^Stunned.} Good God, I n
dreamed

Miss Gilpin — With others it might be different.^
They might improve under changed surroundings.
In her case, it's certain. Shell die. And it wouldn't
do any good to keep her here, either. She'd die

THE STRAW 129

lere. She'll die anywhere. She'll die because lately
she's given up hope, she hasn't wanted to live any
more. She's let herself go — and now it's too late.

McBBAT — Too late? You mean there's no chance
— ^now? [Miss Gilfin nod», Mubeay is over-
vihelmed — after a pause — atamviering,^ Isn't there
— anything — we can do?

Miss Gilpin — [Sad]y.'\ I don't know. I should
have talked to you before you — You see, she's seen
jou now. She knows. [As he looks mystified she
continues slowly.~\ I suppose you know that Eileen
loves you, don't you,''

MuKBAY — [As if defending himself against an ac-
cusation — -viith confused alarm.J No — Miss Gilpin,
You're wrong, honestly. She may have felt some-
thing like that — once — but that was long ago before
I left the San. She's forgotten all about it since, I
know she has. [Miss Gilpin smUes bitterly.'] Wliy,
she never even alluded to it in any of her letters —
all these months.

Miss Gilpin — Did you in yours?

MuBBAY — No, of course not. You don't under-
stand. Why — just now- — she said that part of it
had all been so silly slie felt she'd acted like a fool
and didn't ever want to be reminded of it.

Miss GiLpiN-^She saw that you didn't love her —
any more than you did in the days before you left.
Oh, I used to watch you then. I sensed what was
going on between you, I would have stopped it then
out of pity for her, if I could have, if I didn't know

180

THE STRAW

that any interference would only make mattei
worse. And then I thought that it might be only
surface affair — that after you were gone it woi
end for her. [She sighs — Ihen after a pause.^
You'll have to forgive me for speaking to you so
boldly on a delicate subject. But, don't you see, it's
for her sake. I love £ileen. We all do. [Averting^
her eyes from his — in a low voice.^ I know how
Eileen feels, Mr. Murray. Once — a long time ago-
I suffered as she is suffering — from this same mis-
take. But I had resources to fall back upon that
Eileen hasn't got — a family who loved me and un-
derstood — friends — so I pulled through. But it
spoiled my life for a long time. [Looking at htm
again and forcing a smile.] So I feel that perhaps
I have a right to speak for Eileen who has no oi
else.

MiJEiL,\Y — [Huskilt/ — much moved.^ Say an;
thing to me you like, Miss Gilpin.

Miss Gilpin — [After a pause — tadly.'] You don'
love her — do you,''

MuKEAY — No— I I don't believe I've ev(

thought much of loving anyone — that way.

Miss Gilpin— [SfldZj/.] Oh, it's too late, Vi
afraid. If we had only had this talk before you hi
seen her ! I meant to talk to you frankly and if
found out you didn't love Eileen — there was alwa;
the forlorn hope that you might — I was going to ti
you not to see her, for her sake — not to let her fai
the truth. For I am sure she continued to hope h

^S^sraJ

.W 181

spite of everything, and always would — to the end —
if she didn't see jou. I was going to implore you to
stay away, to write her letters that would encourage
her hope, and in that way she would never learn the
truth. I thought of writing you aU this — but — it's
so delicate a matter — I didn't have the courage.
[TTiiA intense grief.^ And now Doctor Stanton's
decision to send her away makes everything doubly
hard. When she knows that — she will throw every-
thing that holds her to life — out of the window!
And think of it — her dying there alone!

McKRAY — IVerp pale.~\ Don't! That shan't hap-
pen. I can at least save her from that, I have
money enough — 111 make more — to send her any
place you tliink

Miss Gilpin— That is something — ^but it doesn't
touch the source of her unhappiness. If there were
only some way to make her happy in the little time
that is left to her ! She has suffered so much through
you. Oh, Mr, Murray, can't you tell her you love
her?

MrBEAY — [After a pause — slojdy.'] But she'll
never believe me, I'm afraid, now.

Miss Gilpin — [Eagerlif.^ But you must make
her believe! And you must ask her to marry you.
If you're engaged it will give you the right in her
eyes to take her away. You can take her to some
private San. There's a small place but a very good
one at White Lake. It's not too expensive, and it's
ft beautiful spot, out of the world, and you can live

THE STRAW

and Tork nearby. And she'll be happy to the ve
last. Don't you think that's something — ^the h
you have — the best you can give in return for I
love for you?

Murray — ISlowlf/ — deeply mo'oed.'] Yes. [7^
determinedli/.^ But I won't go into this thing t
halves. It isn't fair to her. I'm going to man
her — yes, I mean it. I owe her that if it will male
her happy. But to ask her without really meanioj
it — knowing she — no, I can't do that.

Miss Gilpin — {^With a sad smile.'] I'm glad yoi
feel that way. It shouldn't be hard now for you t
convince her. But I know Eileen. She will neve
consent — for your sake — until she is well ;
And stop and think, Mr. Murray. Even if she dii
consent to marry you right now the shock — the t
citement — it would be suicide for her. I would ha*
to warn her against it myself ; and you wouldn't pro
pose it if you knew the danger to her in her present
condition. She hasn't long to live, at best, I've
talked with Dr. Stanton, I know. God knows I
would be the first one to hold out hope if there was
any. There isn't. It's merely a case of prolonging
the short time left to her and making It happy. You
must bear that in niind — as a fact !

McRRAY- — [Dullff.^ All right, T\\ remember.
But it's hell to realize [He turns suddenly to-
ward the porch door.] I'll go out to her now while
I feel — that — yes, I know I can make her believe me
now.

133

Miss Gupin — You'll tell me — later on?

Mdkkat — Ves. [^He opens the door to the porch
and goes out. Miss Giipin standi for a moment
looking after him worriedly. Then she sighs help-
leatly and goes out to the hall. Mdrrat steps notse-
lessly out on the porch. Eileen is lying motionless
with her eyes closed. Muerat stands looking at her,
his face showing the emotional stress he is under, a
great pitying tenderness in his eyes. Tlien he seems
to come to a revealing decision on what is best to do
for he tiptoes to the bedside and bending down with
a quick movement, takes her in his arm, and kisses
her-l Eileen !

Eii-EEN — [Startled at first, resists automatically
for a moment.^ Stephen! [Then she succumbs and
lies back in his arms with a happy sigh, putting
both hands to the sides of his face and staring up
at him adoringly-l Stephen, dear!

MuBRAT — [Quickly questioning her before she can
question him."] You were fibbing — about that night
— weren't you? Yon do love rae, don't you, Eileen?

Eileen — [Breathlessly.^ Yes — I — ^but you, Ste-
phen — you don't love me. [She makes a movement
as if to escape from his embrace.^

MiTRBAY — [Genuinely moved — with tender reas-
surance.'] Why do you suppose I came way up here
if not to tell you I did? But they warned me — Miss
Gilpin — that you were still weak and that I mustn*t
excite you in any way. And I — T didn't want — but
I had to come back and tell you in spite of them.

1S4

IfflB flTRAW

Eileen — {Convinced — with a happy laugh.']
is that why jou act«<l so strangi; — and cold? Aren'
they silly to tell you that! As if being happy couli
hurt me! Why, it's just that, just you I've needed

MuEBAT — [Hit voice trembling.^ And youl
marry me, Eileen?

En-EEN — [A shadow of doubt crossing her fac
momentaTilg.'] Are you sure — you want mi
Stephen ?

Mpbbat — [A lump in hit throat — htitkily.~^ Ya
I do want you, Eileen.

Eileen — [HappUy.^ Then I will — after I'mwd
again, of course. [She Jcittei kim.'\

MnnsAY — [Chokingly.} 'Hiat won't be longnoifi
Eileen.

Eileen — [Joyovaly,^ Vo — not long — now th»
I'm happy for once in my life. I'll surprise yoii
Stephen, the way I'll pick up and grow fat am
healthy. You won't know me in a month. How cafl
you ever love such a skinny homely thing as I a
now! [With a laugh.'\ I couldn't if I was a man-
love such a fright.

Mttkray^ — Ssshh !

Eileen — [Confidently.'] But you'll see now. I
make myself get well. We won't have to wait Ion
dear. And can't you move up to the town near her
where you can see me every day, and you can t
and I can help you with your stories just as I usee
to — and m soon be strong enough to do your typinj
again. [She laughs.} Listen to me — talking abou

THE STRAW 135

helping you — as if they weren't all your own wort,
those blessed stories!— as if I had aoything to do
with it !

MuBBAT — IHoanely.J You had ! You did !
They're yours. [Trying to calm himself-l But you
mustn't stay here, Eileen, You'll let me take you
away, won't you? — to a better place — not far away
— ^White Lake, it's called. There's a small private
sanatorium there. Doctor Stanton says it's one of
the best. And I'll live nearby — it's a beautiful spot
— and see you every day.

Efleen — [In tlie seventh heaven-l And did you
I plan out all this for me beforehand, Stephen? [He
' nodt with averted eyes. She kis»es Ma hair.^ You
wonderful, kind dear ! And it's a small place — this
^Tiite Lake? Then we won't have so many people
around to disturb us, will we? We'U be all to oui^
selTes. And you ought to work so well up there. I
know New York wasn't good for you — alone — with-
out me. And 111 get well and strong bo quick ! And
Jou say it's a beautiful place? [Intensely.'] Oh,
Stephen, any place in the world would be beautiful
to me — if you were with me ! [His face is hidden m
Ih pillow beside her. She is suddenly startled by a
muffled sob — atiaiously.l Why — Stephen — you're
I — yoa're crying! [The tears start to her otcn

Mpbbat — [Saising his face mhich is this time
alight with a passionate awakening — a revelation,}

186 THE STRAW

Oh, I do love you, Eileen ! I do ! I love you, love
you!

Eileen — [Thrilled by the depth of hia preseni
sincerity — but with a teasing laugh.^ Why, yon
say that as if you'd just made the discovery,
Stephen !

Murray — Oh, what does it matter, Eileen ! I lova
you! Oh, what a blind selfish ass IVe been! I love
you! You are my life — everything! I love yoUj
Eileen I I do ! I do ! And we'll be married — [Sud-
denly his face grows frozen with horror as he remem-
bers the doom. For the first time the grey spectre oj
Death confronts him face to face as a menacing
reality.^

Eileen — [Terrified by the look in his eyes.l What
is it, Stephen? What—

MuREAY^ — [With a groan — protesting half-
aloud in a strangled voice.l No! No! It can't

be ! My God! [He clutches her haiidt am

hides his face in them.^

Eileen — [With a cry.'] Stephen! What is th)
matter? [Her face suddenly betrays an awarenesii
an intuitive sense of the truth.'] Oh — Stephen—
[Then viith a childish whimper of terror.] Oh,
Stephen, I'm going to die ! I'm going to die

McEEAY — [Lifting his tortured face — wildly. ^
No!

Eileen — [Her voice sinking to a dead whisper.l
I'm going to die.

MuBBAY — [Seizing her in his arms in a paasioif

THE STRAW 137

ate frenzy and pressing his lips to hert.^ No, Eileen,
no, my love, no! What arc you saying? What
could have made you think it? You — iJie? Why,
of course, we're all going to die— but — Good God!
What damned nonsense ! You're getting well — every
day. Everyone — Miss Gilpin — Stanton — everyone
told me that. I swear before God, Eileen, they did !
You're still weak, that's all. They said- — it won't
be long. You mustn't think that — not now.

Eileen — l^Miserabljf— unconvinced.^ But why
did you look at me — that way— with that awful look
in your eyes ? \^While she is speaking Miss Gil-
pin enters the room from the hallway. She appears
tcorried, agitated. She hurries toward the porch but
itops inside the doorway, arrested by Mpkbat's
voice.']

Mpekay — \_Takes Eileen by the shoulders and
forces her to look into his eyes.~\ I wasn't thinking

about you then No, Eileen — not you. I didn't

mean you — but me— yes, me ! I couldn't tell you
before. They'd warned me — not to excite you — and
I knew that would — if you loved me.

Eileen^ — [Staring at him with frightened amaze-
ment.'] You mean you you're sick again?

McBRAY — [Desperately striving to convince her.]
Yes. I saw Stanton. I lied to you before — about
that. It's come back on me, Eileen — you see how
I look — I've let myself go. I don't know how to live
without you, don't you see? And you'll — marry me
now — without waiting — and hdp me to get well —

138

jou and I together — and not mind their lies — what
thej say to prevent jouP You'll do that, Eileen?

Eileen — I'll do anything for you And I'd

be so happy [^She breaks down.^ But, Stephen^

I'm so afraid. I'm all mixed up. Oh, Stephen, I
don't know what to believe !

Miss Gilpin — [IFfto has been listening thunder-
struck to MtjaEAY's mid pleading, at last i
up the determtTtation to interfere — steps out on thf,
porch — in a tone of severe remonstrance. ~\ Mr.
Murray !

MuRKAT — [Starts to his feet with wild, bewildered

eyes — confusedly.^ Oh — ^you [Miss Gilpdi

cannot restrain an exclamation of dismay as she s
his face wrumg by despair, Eileen turns her head
away with a little cry as if she wovld hide her face
in the bedclothes. A sudden fierce resolution lighti
up Muebat's countenance — hoarsely.^ You're just
in the nick of time, Miss Gilpin! Eileen! Lbteni
YouHl believe Miss Gilpin, won't you? She knowi
all about it. [Eileen turns her eyes questioningl^
on the bewUdcred nurse.l

Miss GiLriN— Wliat ?

MnBRAT — [Determinedly.'] Miss Gilpin, Doctoi
Stanton has spoken to you since he examined nns
He must have told you the truth about me. EileeB
doesn't believe me — when I tell her I've got T. B
again. She thinks — ^I don't know what. I knoi
you're not supposed to, but can't you make an es

THE STRAW 139

ception — in this case? Can't joa tell Eileen the
trath?

&I1SS Gilpin — [^Stmmed by being thus defiantly
confronted — stammertTigl^.^ Mr. Murray! I — I —
how can you ask

McKKAY — [Quickli/.'\ Eileen has a right to know.
She loves me — and I — I — love her! \^He holds her
eyes and spcalcs aith a passion of sincerity that com-
pels belief.^ I love her, do you hear?

Miss Gilpik — l^Falteringly.l You — love — Eileen?

MuaKAY — Yes! I do! [Entreatingly,} So —
tell her — won't you?

Miss Gupin — [^Swallowing hard. Iter eyes fitU of
pity and sorrow fixed on Eileen.] Yes — Eileen — ^it's
true. \_She turns away slowly toward the door.'\

Eileen — [m^fe a little cry of alarmed concern,
stretches out h£r hands to Mueeat protectingly.'^
Poor Stephen — dear! [ff« grasps her hands and
kisses thevt.'l

Miss Gilpin — [In a low voice.'\ Mr. Murray.
May I speak to you for a moment?

McEKAY — [TFi(ft a look of questioning defiance at
her.l Certainly.

Miss Gilpin — [Turns to Eileen with a forced
smile.] I won't steal him away for more than a
moment, Eileen. [Eileen smiles happUy."^

MrBBAY — [Follows Miss Gilpin into the room.
She leads him to the far end of the room near the
door to the hall, after shutting the porch door care-
fully behind him. He looks at her defiantly.'] Well?

Miss Gu-pin — [In low agitated tones.'] What ha
happened? What is the meaning — I feel as if I ma;
have done a great wrong to myself — to you — to he
— by that lie. And yet — something impeUed n

Mdkkat — [Moved.'\ Don't regret it, Miss Git
pin ! It has saved her — us. Oh, liow can I explai
what happened? I suddenly saw — how beautiful ant
swoet and good she is — how I couldn't bear thi

thought of life without her — her love That!

all. [iDeterminedli/.] She must marry me at (
and I will take her away — the far West —
place Stanton thinks can help. And she can taki
care of me— as she thinks— and I know she will grm
well as I seem to grow well. Oh Miss Gilpin, don*
you see? No half and half measures — no promise
— no conditional engagements — can help us — helj
her. We love too much! [Fiercely as if defyin
her.] But we'll win together. We can ! We must
There are things your doctors cannot value — cannot
know the strength of! [Exultantly.'] You'll see!
Ill make Eileen get well, I tell you ! Happiness will

cure! Love is stronger than [He suddenly

breaks down before the pitying negation she cannot
keep from her eyes. He sinks on a chair, shoidders
bowed, face hidden in his hands, •with a groan 0/
despair.] Oh, why did you give me a hopeless hope?

JVIiss Gilpin — [Putting her hand on his shovlder
— with tender compassion — sadly.] Isn't everything
we know — ^just that — when you think of it? [Her
face lighting up with a consoling revelation.] But

THE STRAW 1*1

there must be something back of i'.— some promise of
fulfillment, — somehow — somewhere — in the spirit of
hope itself.

MuREAT — [Dully.^ Yes — but what do words
mean to me now? \^Then suddenly starting to his
feet and fitnging off her hand with disdainful
strength—violently and almost insvltingly.'\ What
damned rot ! I tell you we'll win ! We must ! Oh,
I'm a fool to waste words on you! What can you
know? Love isn't in the materia medica. Your
predictions— all the verdicts of all the doctors —
what do they matter to me? This is — beyond you!
And we'll win in spite of you! [Scornfully.^ How
dare you use the word hopeless — as if it were the
last ! Come now, confess, damn it ! There's always
hope, isn't there? What do you know? Can you
say you know anything?

Miss Gn-vrs— -[Taken aback by his violence for a
moment, finally bursts into a laugh of help-
lessness which is close to tears,'] I? I know nothing
— absolutely nothing! God bless you both! [She
raises her handkerchief to her eyes and hurries out
to the hallway without turning her head. Muehay
stands looking after her for a moment; then strides
out to the porc7(.]

EiXEEN — [Tuming and greeting him with a shy
smite of happiness as he comes and kneels by her
bedside.'^ Stephen ! [He kisses her. She strokes
hit hair and continues in a tone of motherly, sdf-
forgettvag solicitude.'] I'll have to loot out for you,

142 THE STRAW

Stephen, won't I? From now on? And see that you
rest so many hours a day — and drink your milk
when I drink mine — and go to bed at nine sharp
when I do— and obey everything I tell you— and

IThe Curtain FalW}

THE EMPEROR JONES

CHARACTERS

Brutus Jones^ Emperor,

Henry Smithers^ A Cockney Trader.

An Old Native Woman.

Lem^ a Naiive Chief,

Soldiers^ Adherents of Lem,

The Little Formless Fearf>; Jeff; The

Negro Convicts; The Prison Guard;

The Planters; The Auctioneer; The

Slaves; The Congo Witch-Doctor; The

Crocodile God.

The action of the play takes place on an
island in the West Indies as yet not self-
determined hy White Marines, The form
of native government is, for the time be-
ing, an Empire.

SCENE ONE

iCEUE — The audience chambeT in the palace of the
Emperor — ~a spacious, kigli^ceiiinged room
with bare, white-washed wails. TJie floor is of
ahite tUes. In the rear, to the left of center,
a wide archway gvvvng out on a- portico with
white pillars. The palace is evidently situated
on high ground for beyond the portico TWthing
can be seen but a 7>ista of distant hills, their
summits crowned with thick groves of pal^n
trees. In the right wall, center, a smaller
arched doorway leading to the limng quarters
of the palace. The room is bare of furniture
with the exception of one huge chair made of
vmcut wood which sta/nds at center, its back
to rear. This is very apparently tite Em-
peror's throne. It is painted a dazzling, eye-
smiting scarlet. There is a brilliant orange
cushion on the seat and anotlier sjmUler one is
placed on the floor to seme as a footstool.
Strips of Tnattin-g, dyed scarlet, lead from the
foot of the throne to the two entrances.

It is late afternoon but the sunlight still
blazes yellowly beyond the portico a/nd there is
an oppressive burden of exhausting heat in the

147

148 THE EMPEROR JONES

As the cwrtain rUes^ a natifoe negro wanuui
tneaks in ccmtiously from the enirance on the
right. She is very old, dressed in cheap calico,
hare-footed, a red bandana handkerchief cov-
ering all hut a few stray wisps of white hair,
A hti/ndle hound in colored cloth is carried over
her shoulder on the end of a stick. She hesi-
tates beside the doorway, peering back as if in
extreme dread of being discovered. Then she
begins to glide noiselessly, a step at a time,
toward the doorway in the rear. At this nuh
ment, Smithees appears beneath the portico.

Smithees is a toll, stoop-shouldered num
about forty. His bald head, perched on a long
neck with an enormotis AdcmCs apple, lookt
like am, egg. The tropics have tanned his not"
uraUy pasty face with ifs small, sharp fea-
tures to a sickly yellow, amd native rv/m has
painted his pointed 7U)se to a startling red.
His little, washy-blue eyes are red-rimmed and
dart about him like a ferrefs. His expression
is one of unscrupulous meanmess, cowardly and
dangerous. He is dressed in a worn riding suit
of dirty white drill, puttees, spurs, and wears a
white cork helmst. A cartridge belt with an
automatic revolver is around his waist. He
carries a riding whip in his hand. He sees tii£
woman amd stops to watch her suspiciously.
Then, making up his mind, he steps quickly on
tiptoe into the room. The wommi, looking back

enter h£r ahtyidder contirvaaH-y, doeg not see him
untU it is too iMe. When she does Smithebs
spriuigs forward and grabs her firndi/ by the
ahovider. She struggles to get ateay, fiercely
but silently.

S'niTs.Eiis~~\_Tightening his grasp — roughly.^
Easy 1 None o' that, me birdie. You can't wriggle
out now. I got me 'ooks on yer.

Woman — {^Seeing the uselessness of struggling,
gives way to framtic terror, and sinks to the grou/nd,
embracing his hnees supplicatingly.l No tell him !
No tell him, Mister!

Smithess — [TFtffe great curiosily.1 Tell 'im?
\^Then scomftdly.] Oh, you mean 'is bloomin'
ilajesty. What's the gaime, any 'ow? What are
you sneakin* away for? Been stealin' a bit, I s'pose,
\^He taps her bundle with his riding whip signifi-
cantly. J

Woman — [Shaking her head vehemently.'] No,
me no steal.

Smithehs — Bloody liar! But tell me what's up.
There's somethin' funny goin' on. I smelled it in
tlie air first thing I got up this momin'. You blacks
are up to some devilment. This palace of 'is is like
a bleedin' tomb. Where's all the 'ands? [The
leoman keeps sullenly silent, SMirHERS raises his
whip threateningly.] Ow, yer won't, won't yer?

I show yer what's what,
VoKAK — [^Cowringly,] I tell. Mister You no

150 THE EMPEROR JONES

hit. They go — all go. {^She makes a sweeping ges-
ture toward the hSLs in the distance.']

Smit9£ES — ^Run away — to the 'Ills?

Woman — ^Yes, Mister. Him Emperor — Great
Father. [^She touches her forehead to the floor with
a quick mechanical jerk.l Him sleep after eat.
Then they go — ^all go. Me old woman. Me left
only. Now me go too.

SMPrHEBS— [^«» astomshment giving way to cm
immense J mean, satisfaction^ Ow! So that's the
ticket ! WeU, I know bloody well wot's in the air —
when they runs orf to the 'ills. The tom-tom '11
be thumping out there bloomin' soon. \With ex-
treme vindictvoeness.] And I'm bloody glad of it,
f6r one! Serve 'im right! Puttin' on airs, the
stinkin' nigger! 'Is Majesty! Gawd blimey! I
only 'opes I'm there when they takes 'im out to
shoot 'im. [Sudderdj/.'] 'E's still 'ere all right,
ain't 'e?

Woman — ^Yes. Him sleep.

Smithees — 'E's bound to find out soon as 'e
wakes up. 'E's cunnin' enough to know when 'is
time's come. \_He goes to the doorway on right and
whistles shrilly with his pagers in his mouth. The
old wom^jm springs to her feet amd rwns out of the
doorway^ rear. Smithees goes after her^ reaching
for his revolver.'] Stop or I'll shoot! [TAai
stopping — indifferently,] Pop orf then, if yer like,
yer black cow. \_He stands in the doorway, looking
<ifter her.]

TMv". emperor JONES

[Jones eaters from, the right. He is a
tail, powerfulliz-buUt, fuU-blooded negTO'of
■middle age. His features are typicaiiy
negroid, yet there is something decidedly dis-
tinctive about his face — <m wnderiymg
strength of wUl, a hardy, sdf-reliani con-
fidence M» himsdf that inspires respect. His
eyes are alive mth a keen, cimning intelli-
gence. In maimer he is shrewd, snspiciov^,
evasive. He wears a light blue v/niform coat,
sprayed with brass buttons, heavy gold
cheoTom on his shotdders, gold braid on the
coUar, cuffs, etc His pants are bright red
with a light hive stripe down the side. Pat-
ent leather laced boots with brass spurs, and
a bdt with a long-barrded, pearl-handled
revolver in a holster complete his make up.
Yet there is something not altogether
ridiculous about hig grandeur. He has a
way of carrying it off.l
Jones — [Not seeing anyone — greatly irritated
and blinking sleepily — shouts.^ Who dare whistle dat
way in my palace F Who dare wake up de Em-
peror? I'll git de hide frayled off some o' you nig-
gers sho'!

Smithess — [Showing himself — mi a manner htdf-

afraid and half -defiant. '\ It was me whistled to

yer. [As Jones frowns amgrHy.^ I got news for

P yer.

Jones — [Putting on kis suavest

which

ISC

THE 1

P^&S

failt to cover up hi* contempt for the white man.]
Oh, it's you. Mister Smithers. [ffr tita doxen on hit
throne vith easy digttity.^ What news you got to
tell tne?

Smtthehs — [Coming clou to enjoif hi» ditcomfi-
ture-l Dop't yer notice nothin' funny today?

JoVKa-^[Coldlf/.1 Funny? No. I ain't per-
ceived nothin' of de kind !

Smithers — Then yer ain't so foxy as I thou^t
yer was. Where's all your court? [SarcaxticaUy]
the Generals and the Cabinet Ministers and all?

JoN£s — [Imperliirbabltf.] Where dey mostly
runs to minute I closes my eyes — drinkin' mm and
talkin' big down in dc town. [Sarctuticallp.'] Ho^
come you don't know dat? Ain't you sousin' with
'em most every day?

SsnTiiEBs — [Stwnij but pretending indifference—
with a wink.l That's part of the day's work. I got
tcr — ain't I — in my business?

Jones — [Contemptuonsly.l Yo' business!

Smithees — {^Imprudently enraged,^ Gawd blimev,
you was glad enough for me ter take yer in on it
when 30U landed here first. You didn' 'ave no 'igii
and mighty airs in them days !

Jones— [Hi* hand going to his revolver like a
flash — menacingly.'] Talk polite, white man! Talk
polite, you heah me ! I'm bosslheah now, is you fer-
gettin'? [The Cockney s^emg about to challenge tVu
la^t ttatement with the facts but tometfang in tht
other's eyes holds avd cowes Tim.]

THE EMPEROK JONES

MITHSR9 — [In a cowardly wkine.'] No 'arm "
meant, old top.

Jones — [Ccmd^scendwiglt/.^ I accepts yo' apol-
ogy. [Lets his hand fall from JUs revolver.'] No
use'n you rakin' up ole times. What I was den ia
one thing. What I is now 's another. You didn't let
me in on yo' crooked work out o' no kind feelin's dat
time. I done de dirty work fo' you — and most o' de
brain work, too, fo' dat matter— and I was wu'th
money to you, dat's de reason.

Smitheks — Well, blimey, I give yer a start, didn't
I — when no one else would. I wasn't afraid to 'ire
yer like tlie rest was — 'count of tlie story about your
breakin' jail back in the States,

Jones — No, you didn't have no s'cnse to look
down on me fo' dat. You been in jail you'self more'n
once.

Smithebs — [Furioitilp.'l It's a lie! [Then try-
ing to pass it off bi/ an attempt at scorn.] Gam!
Who told yer that fairy tale?

JoxES — Dey's some tings I ain't got to be tole, I
liin see 'em in folk's eyes. [Tlien after a pause —
"meditatiz'ely.l Yes, you sho' give me a start. And
it didn't take long from dat time to git dese fool,
woods' niggers right where I wanted dem. [TTttA
jiride.'] From stowaway to Emperor in two years!
TJat's goin' some!

Smitheeb — [H'tfA curiogity.'\ And I bet you got
yer pile o' money 'id safe some place.

JoxEs — [Wiffi. satisfaction.] I sho' has! And

154

THE EMPEROR iTONfiS

it's in a foreign bank nhere no pusson don't eror p
it out but me no matter what come. Yoq didn*
s'pose I was lioldin' down dis Emperor job for d
glory in it, did jou? Sho'! De fuss and glory j
of it, dat's only to turn de heads o* de low-ti
hush niggers dat's here. Dey wants de big circa
show for deir money. I gives it to *em an' I gits d
money. [With a yrw*.] De long green, dat's i
every time! [Then rcbuHnglj/.] But you ain't go!
no kick agin me, Smithers. I'se paid you back i
you done for me many times. Ain't I pertected yott
and n-inked at all de crooked tradin' you been doiiL*
right out in de broad day. Sho* I has — and i
niakin' laws to stop it at de same time! [B
chuckhi.l

Smithers- — [Gnnnwif/.] But, meanin' no' 'arm
you been grabbin' right and left yourself, ain't yerf
Iiook at the taxes you've put on 'em ! Blimey
You've squeezed 'em dry!

Jones — [Chuckling.'] No, dey ain't oU dry yet
I'se still heah, ain't I?

Smithers — [SviHing at hit secret /ftou^tJ
They're dry right now, you'll find out, [Ch4mgiin
the avbject ahmptly.'\ And as for me breakil
laws, you've broke 'em all jerself just as fast as yi
made 'em.

Jones — ^Ain't I de Emperor? De laws don't f
for him. [JudiciaUy-] You hcah what I tells j-oS
Smithers. Dere's little stealin' like you does, an
dere's big stealin' like I does. For de little stealill

THE EMPEROR JONES 165

dey gits jou in jail soon or late. For de big stealin'
dey mates jou Emperor and puts you in de Hall o'
Fame when you croaks. [Reminiscentlj/.'\ If dey'a
one tiling I learns in ten years on de Pullman ca's
listenin' to de white quality talk, it's dat same fact.
And when I gits a chance to use it I winds up Em-
peror in two years.

Smithees — '[Unable to repress the genuine ad-
miration of the tmaU fry for the large.~\ Yes, yer
turned the bleedin' trick, all right, Bliiney, I never
seen a bloke *as 'ad the bloomin' luck you 'as.

JoMES — ISeverdy.] Luck? Wliat you mean —
luck?

Smitheks— I suppose you'll say as that swank
about the silver bullet ain't luck — and that was what
first got the fool blacks on yer side the time of the
revolution, wasn't itP

Jones — [TFrtA. a lav^h.^ Oh, dat silver bullet!
Sho' was luck! But I makes dat luck, you heah? I
loads de dice! Yessuh! When dat murderin' nigger
ole Lem hired to kill me takes aim ten feet away and
his gun misses fire and I shoots him dead, what you
heah me say?

Smithees — You said ycr'd got a charm so's no
lead bullet'd kill yer. You was so strong only a sil-
ver bullet could kill yer, you told 'em. Blimey,
wasn't that swank for yer — and plain, fat-'eaded
luck?

Jones — [Proudlif.'\ I got brains and I uses 'era
lick. Dat ain't luck.

156 THE EMPEROR JONES

SifiTHERs — ^Yer know they wasn't 'ardly liable to
get no silver bullets. And it was luck 'e didn't 'it
you that time.

Jones — \_LaugJiing.'\ And dere all dem fool, bash
niggers was kneelin' down and bumpin' deir heads on
de ground like I was a miracle out o' de Bible. Oh
Lawd, from dat time on I has dem all eatin' out of
my hand. I cracks de whip and dey jumps through.

Smithees — \_With a iniff,'] Yankee bluflF done it.

Jones — ^Ain't a man's talkin' big what makes him
big — ^long as he makes folks believe it? Sho', I talks
large when I ain't got nothin' to back it up, but I
ain't talkin' wild just de same. I knows I kin fool
'em — ^I knows it — and dat's backin' enough fo' my
game. And ain't I got to learn deir lingo and
teach some of dem English befo' I kin talk to 'em?
Ain't dat wuk? You ain't never learned ary word er
it, Smithers, in de ten years you been heah, dough
you' knows it's money in yo' pocket tradin' wid 'em
if you does. But you'se too shiftless to take de
trouble.

Smithees — l^FltuJiing.^ Never mind about me.
What's this I've 'eard about yer really 'avin' a sil-
ver bullet moulded for yourself?

Jones — ^It's playin' out my bluff. I has de silver
bullet moulded and I tells 'em when de time comes I
kills myself wid it. I tells 'em dat's 'cause I'm de
on'y man in de world big enuff to git me. No use'n
deir tryin'. And dey falls down and bumps deir
heads. [He latighs.^ I does dat so's I kin take a

THE EMPEROR JONES 187

walk in peace widout no jealous nigger gunnin' at
me from behind de trees.

Smtthers — [^Astoiughed.^ Then you 'ad it made

Jones — Sho' did. Heah she be. [//« taket out
hia revolver, breaks it, and takes the silver bullet out
of on£ cliamher.^ Five lead an' dis silver baby at dc
last. Don't she shine pretty? [He koUh it in hia
liand, looking at it admiringly, as if stramgely fat-
cinated.^

Smithers— Let me see. [Reaches ou-t his hand
for »7.]

Jones — [Harahly,'\ Keep yo' hands whar dey
blong, white man. [He replacet it in, the chamber
and puts the revolver back on his Wp.]

Smithers — [Snarling.l Gawd blimey I Think
I'm a bleedin' thief, you would.

Jones — No, 'tain't dat. I knows you'se scared to
steal from me. On'y I ain't 'lowin' nary body to
touch dis baby. She's my rabbit's foot.
, SftirrnEKS — -[Sneering.l A bloomin' charm, wot?
[Veno'inoudi/.'] Well, you'll need all the bloody
charms you 'as before long, s' 'elp me !

Jones — [Judicially-I Oh, I'se good for six
months yit 'fore dey gits sick o' ray game. Den,
when I sees trouble comin', I makes my getaway.

Smithers — Ho! You got it all planned, ain't
yer?

Jones— I ain't no fool. I knows dis Emperor's
time Is sho't. Dat why I make hay when de sun

158

THE ESfPKEtWt' j<3!*feg

shine. Was you thinkin' I'ee ainuD* to hold dm
dis job for life? Xo, suh! What good is gitti
money if you stays back in dis raggedy country?
wants action when I spends. And when I sees de
niggers gitlin' up deir nerve to tu*n me out, and Pi
got all de money in si^t, I resigns on de spot
beats it quick.

Smituebs — Where to?
JoXES — None o' yo' business.
SuiTBEBS — Not back to the bloody States, 111 la
my oath.

Jones — [Suspidoutly.l Why don't I? ['
anth an eaty latigk.'\ You mean 'count of dat stoi
'bout me breakin* from jail back dere? Dat's f
talk.

Smithehs — \^SkeplicaUy.1 Ho, yes!
Jones — [Sharplif.'] You ain't *sinuatin* Fse
liar, is you?

Smithees — [HattSy.J; No, Gawd strike me! I
was only thiniin' o' the bloody lies you told the
blacks 'ere about kill in* white men in the States.
Jones — [Angered.^ How come dey're lies?
Smithees — You'd 'ave been in jail_ if you 'ad,
wouldn't yer then? [Withvenom.il And from what
I've 'eard, it ain't 'ealthy for a black to kill a white
man in the States, They bums 'em in oil, don't
they?

JoNzs — [TTJiA cool deadlmest.'] You mean lynch-
in' 'd scare me? Well, I tells you, Smithers, maybe I
does kill one white man back dere. Maybe I docs.

THE EMPEROR JONES 169

And maybe I kills another right heah 'fore long if he
don't look out.

Smitheks — {^Trying to force a laugk.] I was on'y
spootin* yer. Can't yer take a joke? And you was
just sayin' you'd never been in jail.

Jones — [/?i the tame torts — slightly hoastftd.']
Maybe I goes to jail dere for gettin' in an argument
wid razors ovah a crap game. Maybe I gits twenty
years when dat colored man die. Maybe I gits in
'nother argument wid de prison guard was overseer
ovah us when we're wukin* de roads. Maybe he hits
me wid a whip and I splits his head wid a shovel and
runs away and iiles de chain off my leg and ^ts away
safe. Maybe I does all dat an* maybe I don't. It's
a. story I tells you so's you knows I'se de kind of
man dat if you evah repeats one words of it, I ends
yo' stealin' on dis yearth mighty damn quick !

Smitheks — [Terrified.^ Think I'd peach on yer?
Not me! Ain't I always been yer friend?

JoMEs— [.SWiiemZ^ rdaoAng.^ Sho' you has —
and you better be.

SanTHEEs — [Recoverijtjg ids covipoaure — and with
it his OToiic^.] And just to show yer I'm yer friend,
m tell yer that bit o' news I was goin' to.

Jones— Go ahead ! Shoot de piece. Must be bad
news from de happy way you look.

Smithebs — [Warmngly.^ Maybe it's gettin' time
for you to resign — with that bloomin' silver bullet,
wot? [He feitislies with a mocking ffrtn.]

Jones — [PiissZtd.] What's dat you say?
plain.

Smithehs — ^Ain't noticed any of the guards i
servants about the place today, I 'aven't.

Jones — [Carelesslt/,^ Dey're all out in de gardo)
slecpin' under de trees. When I sleeps, dej sneaks I
sleep, too, and I pretends I never suspicions it,
I got to do is to ring de bell and dey come fljin'
makin' a bluff dej was wukin' all de time.

Smithees — [/n tlt^ same ■mocking tone.^ Riiq
the bell now an' you'll bloody well see what I meanli

Jones — IStartled to alert'Mss, hut pregeming tht
same cardess ion*.] Sho' I rings. \^\He reaches b
low the throne and pulls out a big, cow-mon dimHp
bdl which is pavThied the samg vivid icariet i
throne. He rings this vigorously — then stops to
listen. Then he goes to both doors, rings again, and
looks out.l

Smitheks — [Watching him ttdth malicious tatif
faction, after a pause — mockingly.~\ The bloodj
ship is sinkin' an* the bleedin' rats 'as slung thei'
'ooks.

Jones — [In a sudden fit of anger flings the B*S
clattering into a corner,^ Low-flung, woods* nig-
gers ! [Th^n catching Smitliers' eye on him, he con-
trols himself and suddenly bursts into a low chuch
ling laugh-l Reckon I overplays my hand dis once'
A man can't take de pot on a bob-tailed flush all de
time. Was I sayin' I'd sit in six months mo'? Welli

THE EMPEROR JONES 161

I'se changed my mind den. I cashes in and resigns
de job of Emperor right dis minute.

Smithees — [Tr»(A real admiration,^ Blimey, but
you're a cool bird, and no mistake.

Jones — No use'n fussin'. When I knows de game's
up I kisses it goodbye widout no long waits. Dey've
all run off to de hills, ain't dey?

Smithees— Yes — every bleedin' man jack of 'em.

Jones — Den de revolution is at de post. And de
Emperor better git his feet smokin' up de trail. [He
starts for tlie door in rear.]

Smithees — Goin' out to look for your 'orse? Yer
won't find any. They steals tlie 'orses first tiling.
Mine was gone when I went for 'im this momin'.
That's wot first give me a suspicion of wot was up.

Jones — [Alarmed for a gecond, scratches his
liead, then philosophically.'] Well, den I hoofs it.
Peet, do yo' duty ! [He pvlls owt a gold watch and
looks at tf.] Three-thuty. Sundown's at six-thuty
or dereabouts. [Puts his watch back — with cool
confidence.] I got plenty o* time to make it easy.

Smithees — Don't be so bloomin' sure of it. They'll
be after you 'ot and 'eavy. Ole Lera is at the bot-
tom o' this business an' 'e 'ates you like 'ell. 'E'd
rather do for you than eat 'is dinner, 'e would !

Jones — [ScomfuUy.] Dat fool no-count nigger!
Does you think I'se scared o' him? I stands him on
his thick head more'n once befo' dis, and I does it

again if he come in my way [Fiercely.] And

dis time I leave him a dead nigger f o' sho' !

Smitbbes — You'll 'ave to cut through the big tof
est — an' these blacks 'ere can sniff and follow a traj
in the dark like 'ounds. You'd 'ave to 'ustle to |
through tJiat forest in twelve hours even if you kneir
all the bloomin* trails like a native.

Jones — [H'ttA. Kulignant acom.^ Loot-a-li
white man ! Does jou think I'se a natural bo'n fooir
Give me credit fo' havin' some sense, fo' Lawd'i
sake! Don't jou s'poae I'se looked ahead and made
sho* of all de chances? I'se gone out in dat big for
est, pretendin' to hunt, so many timts dat I knom
it high an' low like a book. I could go through o
dem trails wid my eyes shut. \_With great con-
tempt,'\ Think dese ig'nerent bush niggers dat aint
got brains cnuff to know delr own names even t
catch Brutus Jones? Huh, I s'pecta not! Not oi
yo' life! Why, man, de white men went after me n
bloodhounds where I come from an' I jes' lau^s at
*em. It's a shame to fool dese black trash around
heah, dey're so easy. You watch me, man'. III
make dem look sick, I will. I'll be 'cross de plai
de edge of de forest by time dark comes. Once in de
woods in de ni^t, dey got a swell chance o' findin.'
dis baby! Dawn tomorrow I'll be out at de odei
side and on de coast whar dat French gunboat il
stayin'. She picks me up, take me to the Alartiniqne
when she go dar, and dcre I is safe wid a migbty bij
bankroll in my jeans. It's easy as rollin' off a log,

Smitheks — [MalicioV'Sly,'] But s'posin' something
'appens wrong an' they do nab yer?

THE EMPEROR JONES 168

JoHEs — [Decimrelff.'l Dey don't — dat'a de an-
swer.

Smithebs — ^But, just for argyment'a sake —
what'd you do?

Jones — [Fronming.^ I'se got 6ve lead bullets in
dis gun good enuff fo' common bush niggers — and
after dat I got de silver bullet left to cheat 'em out
o' gittin' me.

SiifiTHEBs — iJeermgly.l Ho, I was fergettin'
that silver bullet. You'll bump yourself orf in style,
won't yer? Blimey!

Jones — [GloomUff.J You kin bet jo' whole roll
on one thing, white man. Dis baby plays out his
string to de end and when he quits, he quits wid a
bang de way he ought. Silver bullet ain't none too
good for him when he go, dat'a a f ac' ! {^Then shak-
ing ojf his ■nervousness — wiih a confident laugk.^
Sho'! What is I talkin' about? Ain't come to dat
yit and I never will — ^not wid trash niggers like dese
yere. [^BoasifuUif.^ Silver bullet bring me luck
anyway. I kin outguess, outrun, outfight, an' out-
play de whole lot o' dem all ovah de board any time
o' de day er night! You watch me! [^From the
distant hills comes the faint, steady thwmp of a
toin-tom, low and v&rating. It starts at a rate ex-
actly corresponding to •normal pulse heat — 72 to
the mimute — wad continues at a gradually accelerat-
ing rate from this point wnhiterruptedly to the very
end of the play.~\

[Jones ttarts at the lomid. A stra/nge look of

THE EMPEROR JONES

apprehmtion creept tnio Am face for a moment a

> he asks, with

ittempt to
What's dat drum beatin'

litteni,

hit most casual

fo'f

Smithbks — [With a mean grm.^ For yoa.
That ineaDS the bleedin' ceremony 'as started. Tve
*eard it before and 1 knows.

JovEB — Ccr^monv? What cer'tnony?

Smithees — The blaclcs is 'oldin' a bloody meetin*
'avin* a war dance, gettin' their courage worked
up b'fore they starts after you.

Jones— Let dem! Deyll sho' need it!

Smith EKs — And they're there 'oldin' their
'eathen reljpous service — raakin' no end of devil
spells and charms to 'elp 'em ag'ainst your silver
bullet. [He guffaws loudly.] Blimey, but they're
balmy as 'ell !

Jones — [J tinp bit awed and shaken in apUe of
himself.^ Huh! Takes more'a dat to scare dis
chicken !

Smithes s — [Scenting the other's feeling — ma-
licioualf/.l Temight when it's pitch black in the
forest, they'll 'ave their pet devils and ghosts
'oundin' after you. You'll find yer bloody 'air '11
be standin' on end before termorrow tnontin'.
[Seriously/.'} It's a bleedin' queer place, that stini-
in' forest, even in daylight. Yer don't know irfiat
miglit 'appen in there, it's that rotten still. Always
sends the cold shivers down my back minute I gets
in it.

THE EMPEROR JONES

165

—\^Witk a contemptuous sniff.^ I ain't
tio chicken-liver like you is. Trees an' me, we'se
friends, and dar's a full moon comin' bring me light.
And let dom po' niggers make all de fool spells
dey'se a min' to. Does yo' s'pect I'se silly enuff to
blieve in ghosts an' ha'nts an' all dat ole woman's
taUcP G'long, white man! You ain't talkin' to me.
[TTtfA a chuckle.J Doesn't you know dey's got to
do wid a man was member in good standin' o' de
Baptist Church? Sho' I was dat when I was porter
on de Pullmans, befo' I gits into my little trouble.
Let dem try deir heathen tricks, De Baptist Church
done pertect me and land dem all in hell. [Tfeew
with jnore confident satMfaciion.'[ And I'se got
little silver bullet o' my own, don't forgit:

SuTTH^as — Ho ! You 'aven't give much 'eed to
your Baptist Church since you been down 'ere. Pve
*eard myself you 'ad turned yer coat an' was takin'
up with their blarsted witch-docters, or whatever
the 'ell yer calls the a wine.

Jones — ]^VekeTnentljf.'{ I pretends to! Sho' I
pretends ! Dat's part o' my game from de fust. If
I finds out dem niggers believes dat black is white,
den I yells it out louder 'n deir loudest. It don't
pt me nothin' to do missionary work for de Baptist
Church. I'se after de coin, an' I lays my Jesus on
de shelf for de time bein'. \^Stops abruptly to look
at his •match — alertlyJl But I ain't got de time

vaste no more fool talk wid you. I'se gwine awaj
I heah dia secon'. [He reaches in v/nder the

166 THE EMPEROR JONES

throne and puUi oui an expemhe Panama hat wU%
a bright vwitircolored hand and 9et$ U jawmtUg on
JUs head.'] So long, white man! [With a grin.]
See you in jail sometime, maybe!

Smttheks — ^Not me, you won't* Well, I wouldn't
be in yer bloody boots for no bloomin' money, bat
'ere's wishin' yer luck just the same.

Jokes — [Contemptuously.'] You're de frighten-
edest man evah I see ! I tells you I'se safe's 'f I was
in New York City. It takes dem niggers from now
to dark to git up de nerve to start somethin'. By
dat time, I'se got a head start dey never kotch up
wid.

Smithebs — [Maliciously.] Give my regards to
any ghosts yer meets up with.

Jones — [Griivning.] If dat ghost got money,
I'll tell him never ha'nt you less'n he wants to lose
it.

Smithebs — [Flattered.] Gam! [Then curi-
ously.] Ain't yer takin' no luggage with yer?

Jones — ^I travels light when I wants to move fast.
And I got tinned grub buried on de edge o* de for-
est. [BoaetfuUy.] Now say dat I don't look
ahead an' use my brains ! [With a Teide^ liberal ges-
ture.] I will all dat's left in de palace to you—
and you better grab all you kin sneak away wid
befo' dey gits here.

Smithees — [Gratefully.] Righto — and thanks
ter yer. [As Jones walks toward the door in rear

THE EMPEROR JONES 167

— cautioningli/.^ Say! Look 'ere, you ain't goin'
out that way, are yer?

Jones — Does you think I'd slink out de back
door like a conunon nigger? I'se Emperor jfit, ain't
I? And de Emperor Jones leaves de way he comes,
and dat black trash don't dare stop him— not yit,
leastways. [He stopi for a moment m the door-
tea^, listening to the far-off but itisUtertt beat of
the tom-tom,'] Listen to dat roll-call, will jou?
Must be mighty big drum carry dat far. [Tkert
with a latigh.'] Well, if dey ain't no whole brass
band to see me oif, I she' got de drum part of it,
So long, white man. [He pvts his hands in his poc-
kets and zeith studied carelessness, Ttrhistling a time,
he sawntera out of the doorway and off to the left.^

Smithebs— [Loofra after him with a puzzled ad-
miration.] 'E'a got 'is bloomin' nerve with 'im,
a'elp me! [Then angrily.] Ho — the bleediu' nig-
ger — puttin' an "is bloody airs! I 'opes they nabs
'im an' gives 'im what's what! [Then putting bursi-
Tiesa before the pleasure of this thought, looking
arownd him with cupidity.] A bloke ought to find
a 'ole lot in this palace that'd go for a bit of cash.
Let's take a look, 'Arry, me lad, [He starts for
the doorway on right as

[The Curtain FaUt.]

SCENE TWO: NIGHTFALL

Scene — The end of th^ plain where the Great For-
ett begmi. The foregrownd is sandy, /««(
grownd dotted by a few ttones and clit-mpa of
itwnted hxuhet cowering close agamat the earth
to escape tlie buffeting of the trade wind. In
tht rear the forest it a wall of darkness di-
viding the wotid. Onti/ vhen the eye becomes
accuaioTned to the gloom can the outlines of
separate trunks of the nearest trees be -made
ou-t, enormous pBlars of deeper blackness. A
somber monotone of teind lost in the leaves
moans in the air. Yet this sovnd serves but to
intensify tlie impression of the forest's rdent-
less immobility, to form a background throicing
into relief its brooding, implacable silence.

[Jones enters from tlie left, walking rapidly.
He stops as lie nears tlie edge of the forest,
looks arownd him quickly, peering into the dark
as if searching for some famUiar landmark.
Then, apparently satisfied that he is where hf
ought to be, lie throws himself on the groumd,
dog^tired.^

Well, heah I is. In de nick o' time, too! Little
mo' an' it'd be blacker'n de aco of spades heah-

THE EMPEROR JONES 169

&bouts. [He pulls a bandana handkerchief from his
hip pocket and mops off his perspiring face.J Sho' !
Gimme air! I'se tuckered out sho' 'nuff. Dat soft
Emperor job ain't no trainin' for* a. long hike ovah
dat plain in de brilin' sun. [Then reith a chuckle.l
Cheah up, nigger, de worst is yet to come, [He
lifts liis head and stares at th^ forest. His chuckle
peters out abruptly. In a tone of anre.1 My good-
ness, look at dcni woods, will you? Dat no-count
Smithers said dey'd be black an' he sho' called de
turn. iTuming away fro-m them quickly and looking
down at his feet, he snatches at a chance to change
the subject-solicitously.^ Feet, you is holdin' up
yo' end fine an' I sutinly hopes you ain't blistcrin'
none. It's time you git a rest. [He takes off his
shoes, his eyes studiously avoiding the forest. He
feels of the soles of his feet gingerly,'] You is still
in de pink — on'y a little mite feverish. Cool yo'-
selfs. Remember you done got a long journey yit
befo' you, [He sits in a weary attitude, listening to
tlie rhythmic heating of th-e tom-tom. He gru-uAles
i(ri a loud tone to cover up a growing uneasiTiess.'\
Bush niggers! Wonder dcy wotddn' git sick o' boat-
in' dat drum. Sound louder, seem like. 1 wonder if
dey's startin' after meP [He scrambles to his feet,
looking back across the plain.] Couldn't see dem
now, nohow, if dey was hundred feet away. [Then
shaking himself like a wet dog to get rid of these
depressing thoughts.] Sho', dey's miles an' miles
behind. Wbat you gittin' fidgetty about? [But he

170

THE EMPEROR JONISS'

tilt down and begins to lace up hit shoea in great
Jiaste, aU the tim^ muttering rcatttiringlff,^ You
know what? W belly is empty, dat's what's ile
matter wid yoii. Come time to eat ! Wid nothin'
but wind on yo' stumach, o' course you feels jiggedj.
Well, we eats right heah an' now soon's I gits dese
pesky shoes laced up. [He finithes lacing up /i«
tkoet.^ Dere! Now le's see! [Grtt on Am haridi
arid hneei and tearchet the ground around him with
I eyea.'\ White stone, white stone, where is you?
Kfff sees the first johite stone and crawls to it — <
inth satisfaction.^ Heah you is! I knowed dis was
de right place. Box of grub, come to me. [He
turns over the ston£ and feels in wnder U — in a time
of dismay.^ Ain't heah! Gorry, is I in de right
place or isn't I? Dere's 'nother stone. Guess dat's
it. [He scrambles to tlie next stone and tumi it
over.] Ain't heah, neither! Grub, whar is you?
Ain't heah. Gorry, has I got to go hungry into
dem woods — all de night? [WhUe he is talking ke
scrambles from on£ stone to another, turning them
over in frantic haste. Finally, he jumps to his feet
excitedly.] Is I lost de place? Must have! But
how dat happen when I was followin' de trail across
de plain in broad da3lightF [Almost plaiatively.]
I'se hungry, I is! I gotta git my feed. Whar's
my strength gonna come from if I doesn't? Gorry,
I gotta find dat grub high an' low somehow! Why
it come dark so quick like dat? Can't see nothin'-
iHe scratches a match on liis trousers amd peers

THE EMPEROR JONES 171

tit him. The Tate of the beat of the far-off torn--
VfOTa increases perceptibli/ as he does so. He mut-
Wters tft a hewddered voice.'\ How come all dese
white stoEcs come heah when I only remembers one?
[^Suddenly, with a frightened gasp, he (lings th£
match on the gromul omd sto/mps on it,'] Nigger,
is you gone crazy mad? Is you lightin' matches
to show dem whar you isP Fo* Lawd's sake, use
yo' haid. Gorry, I'se got to be careful! \^He
stares at tJie plain beltirid him apprehensively,
his hand on iUs revolver.^ But how come all dese
white stones? And whar's dat tin bos o' grub I hid
n^ wrapped up in oil cloth?

[WfiUe his back is turned, the Little Formless
uiHS creep out from, the deeper blackness of tlie
^rest. They are black, shapeless, only their glit-
rring little eyes can be seen. If they have any de-
scribable form at all it is that of a grubwonn about
the size of a creeping child. They move noiselessly,
but zeith ddiberate, painful effort, striving to raise
themselves on end, failing and sinking prone again.
Jokes turns about to face the forest. He stares up
, at the tops of the trees, seeking vainly to discover
^tit whereabouts by their conformation,']
W Can't tell nothin' from dem trees ! Gorry, nothin'
*round heah look like 1 evah seed it befo'. I'se done
]ost de place she' 'nuff! [^With mournful forebod-
ing.] It's mighty queer! It's mighty queer!
[iriife sudden forced defiance — in an angry to-ne.]
Woods, is you tryin' to put somethin' ovah on me?

172 THE EMPEROR JONES

\_From the formless creatures on the grotmd in
front of him comes a tiny gale of low mocking
laughter like a rustling of leaves. They squirm up-
ward toward him m twisted attitudes. Jones looks
down, leaps backward with a ydl of terror, yamking
out his revolver as he does so — m a quavering
voice. '\ What's dat? Who's dar? What is you?
Git away from me befo' I shoots you up! You
don't?

[He fires. There is a flash, a lovd report, then
silence broken only by the far-off, quickened throb
of the tom-tom. The formless creatures have scur-
ried back into the forest. Jones remains fixed in
his position^ listening intently. The sownd of the
shot, the reassuring feel of the revolver in his hand,
have somewhat restored his shaken nerve. He ad-
dresses himself with renewed confidence. 1

Dey're gone. Dat shot fix 'em. Dey was only
little animals — ^little wild pigs, I reckon. Dey've
maybe rooted out yo' grub an' eat it. She', you
fool nigger, what you think dey is — ^ha'nts? [Ex-
citedly.^ Gorry, you give de game away when
you fire dat shot. Dem niggers heah dat f o' su'tin !
Time you beat it in de woods widout no long waits.
[He starts for the forest — hesitates before the
plwnge — then urging himself in with m/mful resolu-
tion.^ Git in, nigger ! What you skeered at? Ain't
nothin' dere but de trees! Git in! [He plwnges
boldly into the forest."]

SCENE THREE

Scene — Nine o'clock. In the forest. The moon

has just risen. Its beams, drifting through the

canopif of leaves, make a barely perceptible,

»v,ffused, eerie glow. A d^m^e law 'wall of under-

^H bruah and creepers is in ike nearer foregroimd,

^H fencing in a small triangvlar clearing. Be-

^* ffond this is the massed blackness of the forest

like an, encompassing barrier. A path is diinltf

discerned leading domn to the clearing from

left, rear, and winding away from it again

toward the right. As the scene opens nothing

can be distinctly mjide out. Except for the

beating of the tom-tom, which is a trifle louder

and quicker tham^ in the previous scene, there

I is sHence, broken every few seconds by a queer,
clicking sownd. Then gradually the figure of
the negro, Jeff, can be discerned crouching on
his hawnches at the rear of the triangle. He
is middle-aged, thin, brown in color, is dressed
in a Pullman porter's uniform, cap, etc. He
is throwing a pair of dice on the ground before
him, picking them up, shaking them, casting
them out with the regular, rigid, mechanical
movements of an automaton. The heavy, plod-

174 THE EMPEROR JONES

ding foottteps of someone approaching alonff
the trail from the left are heard and Joneb'
voice, pitched in a slightly higher key and
strained in a cheering effort to overcome iti
own tremors.

De moon's rizen. Does you heah dat, nigger? Yon
gits more light from dis out. No mo' buttin' yo'
fool head agin' de trunks an' scratchin' de hide off
yo' legs in de bushes. Now you sees whar yo'se
gwine. So cheer up ! From now on you has a snap.
[He steps just to the rear of the triangvlar clears
mg and mops off his face on his sleeve. He has lost
his Pa/na/ma hat. His face is scratched, his brU-
li<mt wniform shows several large rents.l What
time's it gittin' to be, I wonder? I dassent light nO
match to find out. Phoo'. It's wa'm an' dats a f ac' 1
[Wearily.] How long I been makin' tracks ia
dese woods? Must be hours an' hours. Seems likft
fo'evah! Yit can't be, when de moon's jes' riz. Dia
am a long night fo' yo*, yo' Majesty! [With
mournful chuckle.'] Majesty ! Der ain't much
majesty 'bout dis baby now. \^With attempted
cheerfulness.] Never min'. It's all part o' de game,
Dis night come to an end like everything else. And
when you gits dar safe and has dat bankroll in yo'
bands you laughs at aU dis. [He starts to whistle
but checks himself abruptly,'] What yo' whistlin'
for, you po' dope ! Want all de worl' to heah youP

THE EMPEROR JONES

\He itopi talking to lirlen.l Heah dat ole dmm!
Sho' gits nearer from de sound. Dey're packin' it
along wid 'em. Time fo' me to move. \^He takes
a step forward, then, stops — worriedly.l 'What's
dat odder queer clicketty sound I heah? Dere it ia!
Sound close! Sound like — sound like — Fo' God
sake, sound like some nigger was shootin' crap!
[Fnghtertedly.'\ I better beat it quick when I gits
dem notions. [He zealks quickly mto the clear space
— then sta-nds transfixed as he sees Jeff — in a ter-
rified gasp,^ Who dar? Who dat? Is dat you,
Jeff? [Starting toward tlie other, forgetful for a
moment of his s^irrovmdings and really helietAng it is
a living man that he sees — vn a tone of happy re-
lief.^ Jeff ! I'se sho' mighty glad to see you \ Dey
tol' me you done died from dat razor cut I gives
you. [Stopping suddenly, beK/Uderedly.l But how
you come to be heah, nigger? [He stares fascinat-
edly at the otlier wlio continues his mechanical play
Tenth the dice, Jones' eyes begin to roll toildly. He
stv.tters.'\ Ain't you gwine — look up — can't you
speak to me? Is you — is you — a ha'nt? [He jerks
oat Ms revolver in a frens:y of terrified rage.^ Nig-
ger, I kills you dead once. Has I got to kill you
agin? You take it den. [He fires. When the smoke
clears a>way Jeff has disappeared. Jones stands
trembUng—llien with a certain reassurance. "] He's
gone, anyway. Ha'nt or no ha'nt, dat shot fix him.
[The beat of tlie far-off tom-tom is perceptibly
ider and more rapid. Jokes becomes conscious

176 THE EMPEROR JONES

of it — with a itartf looking back over hit shotJder.']
Dey's gittin* near ! Dey^se comin' fast ! And heah
I is shootin' shots to let 'em know jes' whar I is.
Oh, Gorry, I'se got to run. {^ForgeHting the path
he pltmges wUdly mto the umderhnuh m the rear and
disappears in the shadow.J

SCENE FOUR

JENE — Eleven o^clock. In the forest. A wide
dirt road runs diagonally from rights fronts to
left, rear. Rising sheer on both sides the for-
est walls it in. The moon is now up. Under
its light the road glimmers ghastly and unreal.
It is as if the forest had stood aside mom^^
tarUy to let the road pass through and ac*
complish its veiled purpose. This done, the
forest wUl fold in upon itself again a4id the
road wUl he no more. Jones stumbles in from
the forest on the right. His uniform is ragged
and torn. He looks about him with numbed
surprise when he sees the road, his eyes blink'
ing in the bright moonlight. He flops down
exhoAJbstedly and pa>nts heavily for a while.
Then with svdden amger.

I'm meltin' wid heat! Ruimin' an* runnm' an*
innin'! Damn dis heah coat! Like a strait jacket!
le tears off his coat and flings it away from
rriy revealing himself stripped to the waist. '\ Dere!
at's better ! Now I kin breathe ! {Looking down
his feet, the spurs catch his eye."] And to hell
d dese high-fangled spurs. Dey're what's been

177

178 THE EMPEROR JONES I

a-trippin' me up an' breakin* my neck. {^He wf.
straps them and fling a them away disgustedly^
Deret I gits rid o' dem frippety Emperor trap
pin's an' I travels lighter. Lawd! I'se tired!
[After a patise, listeTting to the msistent beat of
the tom-tom m the distance.^ I must 'a put some
distance between myself an' dem — runnin' like dat
— and yit — dat damn drum sound jes' de same —
nearer, even. Well, I gTiesa I a'most holds my lead
anyhow. Dcy won't never catch up. IWith a sigh.}
If on'y my fool legs stands up. Oh, I'ae sorry I
evah went in for dis. Dat Emperor job is sho' hard
to shake. [He looks around him suspiciously.}
How'd dis road evah git heah? Good level roadi
too. I never remembers seein' it befo'. [Shaking,
his head appreheimveli/,} Dese woods is sho' fuU
o' de queerest things at night. [With a sudden ter-
ror.} Lawd God, don't let me see no more o' dem
ha'nts! Dey gita my goat! [Tfien trying to taJJe
himself into confidence. } Ha'nts! You fool nigger,
dey ain't no such things ! Don't de Baptist parson
tell you dat many time? Is you civilized, or is you .
like dese ign'rent black niggers heah? Sho'! Dat
was all in yo' own head. Wasn't nothin' dere. Wasnt
no Jeff! Know what? You jus' get seein' i
things 'cause yo' belly's empty and you's sick wiij
hunger inside. Hunger 'fects yo* head and yo' eyes.
Any fool know dat. [Then pleading fervently.\
But bless God, I don't come across no more o' den^
whatever dey is! [Then cautiously.} Rest! Donl

THE EMPEROR JONES

1T9

I talk! Rest! You needs it. Den you gits on yo*
way again. [Looking at the ttmwtc.] Night's half
gone a'most. You hits de coast in de mawning!
Den you'se all safe.

[From the right forward a imall gang of
■negroes enter. They are dressed m striped con-
vict suits, their heads are shaven, one leg drags
limpvngly, shackled to a heavy ball and chain.
Some carry picks, the others shovda. They are fol-
lowed by a white man dressed in the uniform of a
prison guard. A Winchester rifle is slv/ng across
liis shoulders and he carries a heavy whip. At a
signal from the Gitaed they stop on the road oppo-
site where Jones is sitting. Jones, reho hag been
staring up at the sky, wnmindfid of their noiseless
approach, suddenly looks down and sees them. His
eyes pop out, he tries to get to his feet and fly, but
sinks hack, too numbed by fright to move. His voice
catches in. a choking prayer.^

Lawd Jesus!

[The Prison Guard cracks his whip — noiselessly
— and at that signal all the convicts start to work
on the road. They swing tJieir picks, they shovel,
hut not a sound comes from their labor. Tltetr
moverments, like those of Jeff mi the preceding
gcene, are those of automatons, — rigid, slow, and
mechanical. The Prison Guard points sternly at
Jones with his whip, motions him to take his place
f-ataong the other shovdlers. Jones gets to his feet
I a hypnotised stupor. He mwmbles tvbterviently.l

180

THE EMPEROR JOKES

Yes, suh! Yes, suh! I'se comin',

[jjj lie shuffles, dragging one foot, over to t
place, he curses voider his breath with rage a
hatred-l

God damn yo' soul, I gits even wid you yit, 8ome>
time.

[As if there mere a shovel in his hands he goet
through weary, mechainical gestures of digging i
dirt, and throimng it to the roadside. Suddenly tht
GuAED approaches him angrily, threateningly. Ht
raises his whip and lashes Jones viciouslg across the
shoulders with it. Jones winces with pain ani
cowers abjectly. The GciKD turns his back on h*n
amd walks amay contemptuously. Instantly Jonei
straightens up. With arms upraised as if his ahovd
were a club in his ha/nds he springs murderously c
the vnisitspecting Guard. In the act of crashing
down his shovel on the white man's akvU, Jones *«*!•
deidy becomes aware that his hands are empty,
cries despairingly.^

Whar's my shovel? Gimme my shovel 'till I spliti
hia damn head! {Appealing to his fellow corsCTcfj,]
Gimme a shovel, one o' you, fo' God's sake !

[They stand fixed in Tootionless attitudes, theil
eyes on the growid. The Guahd seems to wait ev
pectantly, his back turned to the attacker, Jojr
bellows with baffled, terrified rage, tugging frOTiti
caUy at his revolver. "l

I kills you, you white dehil, if it*s de last thing 1
«vah does! Ghost or debil, I kill you agin!

THE EMPEROR JONES 181

{^He frees the revolver and fires paint blank at
the Guaed's hack. Instamtly the walls of the forest
close m from both sides, the road and the figures
of the convict gang are blotted out in an enshroud-
ing darkness. The ovdy sounds are a crashing iri
the underbrush as Jones leaps away in mad fiight
and the throbbing of the tomrtom, stiU far distant,
but increased in volume of sound and rapidity of
heat.^

SCENE FIVE

Scene — One o'clock. A large circular clearing, en-
closed btf the serried ranks of gigantic trunks
of tall trees whose tops are lost to view.
In the center is a hig dead stwmp worn by time
into a curious resemblance to an auction Hock.
The moon floods the clearing with a clear light,
Jones forces his way ifn through the forest (m
the left. He looks wildly about the clearing
with hmttedf fearful glances. His pants are
in tatters, his shoes cut and misshapen, ftap-
ping about his feet. He slinks cautioudy to
the stvmip in the center and sits down in a
tense position, ready for instant flighi. Then
he holds his head in his hands and rocks back
and forth, moaning to himself miserably.l

Oh Lawd, Lawd! Oh Lawd, Lawd! ISudderdy
he throws himself on his knees and raises his clasped
hands to the sky — in a voice of agonized pleading.]
Lawd Jesus, heah my prayer! Fse a po' sinner,
a po' sinner! I knows I done wrong, I knows it!
When I cotches Jeff cheatin' wid loaded dice my
anger overcomes me and I kills him dead! Lawd,
I done wrong ! When dat guard hits me wid de whip,

182

THE EMPEROR JONES 183

mj anger overcomes me, and I kills him deatl, Lawd,
I done wrong! And down heah whar dese fool bush
niggers raises me up to the seat o' de mighty, I steals
all I could grab. Lawd, I done wrong! I knows it!
I'se Borrj! For^ve me, Lawd! Forgive dis po'
sinner! [^Th£n hegeeching terrifiedlp.l And keep
dcm away, Lawd! Keep dem away from me! And
stop dat drum soundin* in my ears ! Dat bc^n to
sound ha'nted, too, \^He gett to hit feet, evidently
xlightly reasgured by his prayer — icith attempted
conpience-l De Lawd'll preserve me from dem
ha'nta after dis. [Sits down on the stump again.'\
I ain't skeered o' real men. Let dem come. But

dem odders [He shudders — then looks down at

his feet, working his toes ijiside the shoes — with a
groan.^ Oh, my po' feet! Dem shoes ain't no use
no more *ceptin' to hurt. I'ae better off widout dem.
.' [He vadaces them ami pidla them off — holds the
wrecks of the shoes in his hands and regards them
tnoumfvlly.^ You was real, A-one patin' leather,
too. Look at you now. Emperor, you'se ^ttin*
mighty low!

[He sighs dejectedly amd remains with bowed
ahoidders, staring down at the shoes in his hands
as if rductant to throra them away. WhUe his at-
tention it thus occupied, a crowd of figures silently
enter the clearing from all sides. AH are dressed
MI Southern costumes of the period of the fifties of
the last century. There are middle-aged men who
are evidently weW-to-do planters. There is one

^^r THE ETHnsnOR J(Wfl!S

^^^ee, outhoritatiM indkidtiol — the Auctionbkb.
Therv are a crowd of cariout ipectatort, chiefly
yowng heUet and dandiet who have come to th«
gla/c&^maricet for dnvrtion. AU exchange coartly
greetings in dumb show and chat silently togetiier.
There w something ttiff, rigid, unreal, marionettish
about their movements. They group themtdvei
about the stump. Finally a batch of slaves are led
in from the left by an attendant — three men
differeTit ages, two teamen, one teith a baby in het;
arms, nursing. They are placed to the left of the
etu/mp, beside Jones.

The tehite planters look them over appraistngly
at if they were cattle, and exchange judgments
each. The dories point with their fingers and
■make Kitty remarks. The belles titter bewitchingly-
AU this in silence sai'e for the ominous throb of
the tom-tom. The Auctioneer holds up his hand,
taking hi» place at the stump. The groups strain
forward attentively. He touches Jones on thf
shoulder peremptorily, motioning for him to stand
on the stump — the auction block.

Jones looks up, tees the figures on all sides, look$
wildly for some opening to escape, sees none,
screams and leaps madly to tlte top of the stump
to get as far away from them as possible. Hi
stands there, cowering, paralyzed with horror. Th4
AccTiONEER begins Am sHent spiel. He points to
Jones, appeals to the planters to see for themsdves.
Here is a good fidd hand, sownd in wind and Itmi

THE EMPEROR JONES 185

Of they can »ee. Very itrong still in spite of kis
being widdle-aged. Look at that back. Look at
those shovldera. Look at the muscles in his arms
and his sturdy legs. Capable of any amownt of
hard labor. Moreover, of a good disposition, intel-
ligent and tractable, WSl arty gentleman start the
bidding? Hie Planters raise their fingers, make
their bids. They are apparently all eager to pos-
sess Jones. The bidding is lively, the croTvd inter-
ested, n^iftfl^ this lias been going on, Jones has
been seized by the courage of desperation. He dares
to look doTim om.d arownd him. Over his face abject
terror gives way to mystification, to gradual realiza,-
tion — s tibt teringly. ]

What you all doin', white folksP Wliat's all dis?
What you all lookin* at me fo'? What you doin'
wid me, anyhow? [Suddenly convulsed leith raging
hatred and fear.'\ Is dis a auction P Is you scllin'
me like dey uster befo' de war? \Jerkvng out his
revolver just a.s the AucTioNEEtt knocks him doicn
to one of the planters — glaring from him to the
purchaser.^ And you sells me? And you buys me?
I shows you I'se a free nigger, damn yo' souls!
[He fires at the Auctioneeu and at the Planter
zoith such rapidity that the two shots are almost
simultaneous. As if this leere a signal the walls
of the forest fold in, Ordy blackness remains and
silence broken by Jones as he rushes off, crying
with fear — and by the quickened, ever louder beat
of the tom-tom."]

SCENE SIX

ScEKE — Three o'clock. A cleared tpace in the fof
eat. The limba of the trees meet over it form-
ing a lov ceilrn-ff about five feet from
grownd. The interlocked ropei of ereepen
reaching upward to entwine the tree trtuiki
gives an arched appearance to the lidei.
space tliiu enclosed is like the dark, jtoisoni
hold of some ancient vessel. The moonligh
is almost completeltf that out and oidy a vagut,
lean light filters through, Tliere is the noise o
someone approaching from the left, atnmbling
and crawling through the undergrowth, Jones^
•voice is heard between chattering m

Oh, Lawd, what I gwine do now? Ain't got nO
bullet loft on'y de silver one. If mo' o' dem faa'ntt
come after me, how I gwine skeer dem away? Oh
Lawd, on'y de silver one left — an' I gotta sayc da!
fo' luck. If I shoots dat one I'm a goner eho'
Lawd, it's black heah! Wliar's de moon? Oh
Lawd, don't dis night evah come to an end? [Bj/ (
sovmds, he is feeling his way caatioualy forward.]
Dere! Dis feels like a clear space. I gotta li
down an' rest. I don't care if dem aigg«rs dofl
cotch me. I gotta rest.

THE EMPEROR JONES 187

^P [^He M wefl forward new where hia figu-re can be
J,imly Tnade out. His pa/nts have been to torn away
that what is left of th-em is no better than a breech
cloth. He flings himself fvll length, face dotcnward
on the growmf, panting tcith exiiaustion. Gradually
it seems to grow lighter in the enclosed space and
two rows of sealed figures can he seen behind Jones.
They are sitting in crumpled, despairing attitudes,
hunched, facing one another with their backs touch-
ing tlie forest walls as if they were shackled to them.
All are negroes, nahed save for lorn, cloths. At first
they are silent and motionless. Then they begin to
sway slowly forward toward each and back again in
-unison, as if they were laxly letting themselves follow
tJte long roll of a sliip at sea. At the same time,
a low, melancholy murmur rises among them, in-
creasing gradually by rhythmic degrees which seem
to be directed and controlled by the throb of the
tom-tom in the distance, to a long, tremulous wail
of despair that readies a certam pitch, unbearably
acute, then folia by slow graduations of tone into
silence and is taken vp again. Jones starts, looks
up, sees the figures, and throws himself down again
to shut out the sight. A shudder of terror shakes
liis whole body as the wail rises up about him again.
But the next time, his voice, as if wnder some u/n-
canny compulsion, starts with the others. As their
chorus lifts lie rises to a sitting posture similar to
the others, swaying back and forth. His voice
reaches the highest pitch of sorrow, of desolation.

188 THE EMPEROR JONES

Tlie light fade$ out, the other voices ceate, and only
darkness is left. Jones can' he heard scrambling
to his feet and rwnning off 9 his voice sinking dawn
the scale and receding as he moves farther and
farther away in the forest. The tomrtom beats
louder, quicker^ with a more insistent, triumphant
pvisation.'l

{

SCENE SEVEN

Scene — Five o'cloci:. The foot of a gigantic tree
by the edge of a great river. A rough struc~
ture of boulders, like an altar, is by the tree.
The railed river bank is in the nearer back-
grownd. Beyond this the surface of the river
spreads ov-t, brilliant arid unruffled in the
moonlight, blotted out and merged into a veil
of bUash vast in the distOTtce. Jones' voice
is heard from the left rising and falling in the
long, despairing tcaU of the chained slaves, to
the rhythmic beat of the tom-tom. As his voice
sinks into sUence, he enters the open space.
The expression of his face is fixed and stony,
Ms eyes have an obsessed glare, he moves with
a strange deiiberation like a sleep-waiker or one
in a trance. He looks around at the tree, the
rough stone altar, the moonlit surface of the
river beyond, and passes his hand over his head
with a vague gesture of puzzled bewilderment.
ThcTi, as if in obedience to some obscure »7ft-
ptdse, he sinks into a kneeling, devotion^ pos-
ture before the altar. Then he seems to come
to himself partly, to have am uncertain reali
tion of what he is doing, for he straightens up

I THE "EMPEROTl JO"

and starct ahotit him horrifigdltf — jn
coherent maanble.

What — what is I doinP What is — dis place?
Seems like — ecems like I know dat tree — an' dem
stones — an' de river. I remember — seems like I been
licnh bcfo'. [Trcmblmglff.^ Oh, Goitt, I'se skeered
in dis place! Tee slceered! Oh, Lawd, pertcct dis
sinner !

[Crawling away from the altar, he cowers cloie to
the grourul, hit face hidden, his thoulders bearing
ti-ith gobs of hysterical frigrht. From behind the
trunk of the tree, aa if he had tprwig out of it, the
figure of the Congo Witch-Doctoe appears. He it
Ktzmcd and old, naked except for the fur of tovu
small animal tied ahotit his waist, its bushy tail
hanging dozen m front. His body is stained all over
a bright red. Antelope Jioms are on each side of hii
head, bramchvng upward. In one liemd he carries a
bone rattle, in the other a charm stick leith a bunch
of uhite cockatoo feathers tied to the end. A great
nu-mbcT of glass beads and bone ornaments are aboaf
his neck, ears, wrists, and ankles. He struts noise-
lessly mith a queer prancing step to a position m the
clear grownd between Jones and the altar. Then viih
a preliminary, summoning stamp of his fool on tki
earth, he begins to dance and to chant. As if *fl
response to his summons the beating of the tom-
tom grows to a ferce, eandtant boom whose throhi
seem to pi the air with vibrating rhythjn. Jones

THE EMPEROR JONES 191

toki «.p, starts to spring to his feet, reaches a
half-hneding, half -squatting position and remains
rigid}// fixed there, paraltfzed teith awed fascination
by this new apparition. The Witch-Doctok sways,
stamping with his foot, his bone rattle clicking the
time. His voice rises and falls in, a weird, monoto-
nous croon, without articulate word dit-isions.
Gradually his dance becomes clearly one of a nar-
rative in pantomime, his croon is an incantatioti, a
charm to allay the fierceness of some implacable
deity demanding sacrifice. He ftees, he is pursued
by devils, he hides, he flees again. Ever wilder and
wilder becomes his flight, nearer amd nearer draws
the pursuing evil, more and more the spirit of terror
gains possession of him. His croon, rising to in-
tensity, is punctuated by shriU cries. Jo^•Es has
become completely hypnotised. His voice joins in-
the incantation, in the cries, he beats time with his
Juinds and sways his body to and fro from the
roaist. The whole spirit and meaning of the dance
has entered into him, has become his spirit. Finally
the theme of the pantomime halts on a howl of
despair, and is taken up again in a note of savage
hope. There is a salvation. The forces of evU
demand sacrifice. They must be appeased. The
WrrcH-DocTOK points with his wand to the sacred
tree, to the river beyond, to the altar, and finally
to Jones with a ferocious command. Jones seems
to sense the mewning of this. It is he who must
offer himself for sacrifice. He beats his forehead

IM THS EHFEROB JONES

abjfctlff to tka ground, moaning kyttfriedUg.]
Mercy, Oh Lawd! Mercy I Mercy on dis |><^

[The WiTCH-DocTOtt ipnngt to the river bank.
He stTclcket out kit armt and caUi to $ome God
within its depths. Then he starts backarard slordy,
his arms remaining ovt. A hugh head of a en
dUe appears ovffr the bank and its eyes, jittering
greenlt/, fasten upon Jones. He stares into them
fascinatedly. Tlie Witch-Doctor prances up ta
him, touches him with his wand, motions with Judeont
command totcard the waiting monster. Jokb
squirms on hit beUy nearer and nearer, Tnoaning c
timuiUtf.^

Mercy, Lawd! Mercy!

[The crocodile heaves more of his enormous htdk
onto the land. Jokes squirms toward hin
WrrcH -Doctor's voice shrills out in furious eTvlto-
tion, the tom-tom beats madly. Jones cries out i
a fierce, exhausted spasm of angwished pleading.]

Lawd, save me! Lawd Jesus, heah my prayer!

[Immediately/, in answer to his prayer, comes th
thought of the one bullet left him. He snatches a
hii hip, shouting defiamtly.']

De silver bullet ! You don't git me yit !

[He fires at the green eyes in front of him,
head of the crocodile sinks back behind the i
banJc, the Witch-Doctoe springs behind the $acn
tree and disappears. Jones lies with his face to tk

THE EMPEROR JONES 19»

growndy his arms outstretched^ whimpering with fear
cks the throb of the tomrtom flUs the silence about
him with a somber puLsation^ a baffled but revenge-
fvl power.']

SCENE EIGHT

SczyK—Datffn. Saitw as scene two, the dividing
line of forest and plain. The nearest tret
trunks are dimly revealed but the forest belunJ
them is stUl a mass of glooming shadow. Tht
tom-tom seems on the very spot, so loud and
cOTitinaously vibrating are its beats. Leh
enters from the left, followed by a STnail sqtu
of his soldiers, and by the Cockney trader,
Smithers. Lem is a heavy-set, ape-faced olfl
savage of the extreme African type, dresisi
only in a loin cloth, .4 revolver and cartridgl
belt are about his ivaist. His soldiers are i
different degrees of rag-concealed nakedneti,
AU wear broad palrw-leaf hats. Each one car
ries a rifle. Smithees is the same aa in ScetU
One. One of tJie soldiers, evidently a tracker,
is peering about keenly on the ground. Hi
gnmts and points to the spot where Jonei
entered the forest. Lem and Smithers cont
to look.

Smithers— [^/iCT- a glance, turns away in
ffust.~\ That's where 'e went in right enough. Much
good it'll do j'er. 'E's miles orf by this an' safe

THE EMPEROR JONES 195

the Coast damn 's 'ide! I tole yer jer'd lose 'im,
didn't I? — wastin' the 'ole bloomin' night beatin'
yer bloody drum and castin' yer silly spells ! Gawd
blimey, wot a pack!

Lem — [Gutfurally.^ We cotch him. You see.
[He makes a motion to his soldiers who squat down
on their h.aun<rhe» in a semi-circle.'\

Smithers — [Exasperatedli/.^ Well, ain't yer
goin' in an' *unt 'im in the woods? What the 'eU's
the good of waitin'?

Lem — [Im-perturhably — squatting down himself.']
We cotch him.

Smithers — [Taming away from Mm contemptw-
oiLsly.] Aw! Gam! 'E's a better man than the
lot o' you put together. I 'ates the sight o' 'im
but I'll say that for 'im. [A sound of snapping
titfigs comes from the forest. The soldiers jump to
their feet, cocking their rifles alertly. Lem remains
gitting with an imperturbable expression, but listen^
ing intently. The sownd from the woods is re-
peated. Lem makes a quick signal with his hnnd.
His followers creep quickly but- noiselessly into the
forest, scattering so that each enters at a differ-
ent spot,]

Smithers — [In the silence that follows— in a con-
temptuous Tt^isper.] You ain't thinkin' that would
be 'im, I 'ope?

Lem — [Calmly.] We cotch him.

Smithees — Blarsted fat 'eads! [Then after a
second's thought — wonderingly .] Still an' all, it

nii^t *appcn. If 'c lost 'is bloody way
stinkin' woods Vd likc-ly turn in a circle
'is knowiii' it. They all does.

Lem — [PernnptorUi/.] Sssh! [jTA* reportt of
tevertd rifteM sound from the farett, followed a tec-
ond later by ravage, exultant yelU. The beating of
the tom-tam abruptly ceates. Leu looks up at the
white man Toith a grin of tatisfactiOTi.'] We cotch
him. Him dead,

Smithebs — l^With a inarl.^ 'Ow d'yer know it's
'im an' 'ow d'yer know 'e'a dead?

Lem — My mens dey got 'um silver bullets. Dej
kill him shore.

SuiTHEBs — [Astonished.] They got silver bul-
lets?

Lem — Lead bullet no kill him. He got um strong
charm. I cook um money, make um silver bullet,
make um strong cliami, too.

Smithf.bs^ — [Light breaking upon hint.] So that's
wot you was up to all night, wot? You was scared
to put after 'im till you'd moulded silver bullets,
eh?

Lem — [Simply stating a fact.] Yes. Him got
strong charm. Lead no good.

Smitheks — [Slapping his thigh and guffawing]
Haw-haw! If yer don't beat all 'ell! [JVt«n r^-
covering himself — scornfully.] I'll bet yer it ain't
'im they shot at all, yer bleedin' loonej!

Lem — [Calmly.^ Dey come bring him now. [Tin
soldiers come out of the forest, carrying Jones'

THE EMPEROR JONES 197

Ump hody. There i» a little reddish- purple hole
wnder hi» left breatt. He ii dead. They carry him
to Lem, zcho examines his hody ztrith great satis-
faction. Smithebs leans over his shoulder — ire a totie
of frightened aiwe,^ Well, they did for yer right
enough, Jonsey, me lad! Dead as a 'erring!
[^Mochingly.^ Where's jer 'igh an' mighty aire
now, jer bloomin' Majesty? [Then with a grrin.]
Silver bullets ! Gawd blimey, but ycr died in the
'eighth o' style, any'ow! [Lem makes a motion to
the soldiers to carry tite body out left. Smithehs
speaks to him sneeringly.']

Smithers — And I s'pose you think it's yer bleed-
in' charms and yer silly beatin' the drum that made
'im run in a circle when 'e'd lost 'imself, don't yer?
[But Lem inakes no reply, does not seem to hear
the question, walks out left after his men.. Smith-
Eas looks after him with contemptuous scorn.]
Stupid as 'ogs, the lot of 'em ! Blareted niggers !
[Curiam FaUs.}

DIFF'RENT

A Play in Two Acts

J-

.4-

■J'

CHARACTERS

Captain Caleb Williams

Emma Cbosby

Captain John Crosby, her father

Mrs. Crosby, her mother

Jack Crosby, her brother

Harriet Williams, Caleb'* sitter {later Mrt.

Alfred Rogers

Benny Rogers, their ton.

SCENES

ACT ONE

Parlor of the Crosby home on a $ide street of a
seaport village in New England — Tnid-after-
noon of a day in late spring in the year 1890,

ACT TWO

The same. Late afternoon of a day in the early
spring of the year 1920.

ACT ONE

ENE — Pariar of the C&osbt home. The room M
xmaU and low-ceUinged. Everything hat an
aspect of scntptdous neatnea. On the left,
foTToard, a stiff pliish-covered chair. Farther
back, m order, a window looking out on a vege-
table garden, a black horsehair sofa, and an-
other window. In the far left comer, an old
mahogany chest of drawers. To the right of
it, in rear, a window lookUig out on the front
yard. To the right of thit window is the front
door, reached by a dirt path through th£ small
lawn which separates the hov^e from the street.
To the right of door, another window. In the
far right comer, a diminutive, old-fashioned
piano with a stool in front of it. Near the piano
on the right, a door leading to the next room.
On this side of the room, are also a STnaU book-
case half filed with old volumes, a big open
firepJace, and another phMh-covered chair.
Over the fireplace a mantel with a marble clock
and a Rogers group. The walls are papered
a brown color. The floor is covered with a
dark carpet. In the center of the room there
u a clumsy, marble-topped table. On the table.

t DIFPRENT

a large china lamp, a hvlky Bible with a i
ctatp, and tereral bookt that look tutpicicnuly
like cheap itovela. Near the table, three pluthr
covered chairs, two of mhich are rockeri. Sev-
eral enlarged photoi of itrairwd, ttem-lookmg
people in ancomfortable poiet are hwag on the
waUt.

It ie mid-afternoon of a fine dag hi late
spring of tht year 1890. Bright stmlight
streams through the wmdorcs on the left.
Through the rrindore and the screen door in the
rear the fresh green of the lattm- and of the rfm
trees that line the street can be seen. Stiff,
white curtains are at all the windows.

As the curtain rises, Emma Ckosby and
Caleb Williams are discovered. Emma m a
slender girl of trceniy, rather under the medium
height. Her face, m spite of its plain features,
gires an impression of prettiness, due to her
large, soft blue eyes rchich have an incongruous
qu/Uity of absent-minded romantic dreaminess
about them. Her mouth amd chin are heavy, fuB
of a sdf-trSled stubbomess. Although her
body is slight and thin, there is a quicic, nervous
vitality about aU her movements that reveah
an underlying constitution of reserve power and
health. She has light brown hair, thick and
heavy. She is dressed sobeiiy and neatly in her
black Sunday best, style of the period.

Caleb Williams is tall and porverfuUif

DIFFRENT 305

bttUt, about thirty. Black hair, keen, dark
eyes, face rugged and bronzed, inouth obsti-
nate but good-natured. He, also, is got up in
black Swnday best and is wncomfortably sdf-
conscious and stiff therein.

They are titling on the horsehair sofa, side
by side. Hit arm is about her waist. She
holds one of his big hands in both of hert, her
head leanmg back against his shoulder, her
eyes half closed in a dreamy contentednest.
He stares before him rigidly, his whole atti-
tude wooden and fixed as if he were posing for
a photograph; yet hit eyes are expressivdy
tender and protecting when he glances down
at her diffidently out of the corners without
moving his head,

Emma^ — \^Sighing happUy.^ Gosh, I wish we could
sit this way forever! [Then after a pause, as he
makes no comment except a concurring squeeze.^
Don't you, Caleb?

Caleb — [WifA another squeeze — emphatically.^
Hell, yes ! I'd like it, Emmcr.

Emma — [Softly.^ I do wish you wouldn't swear
so awful much, Caleb.

Caleb^ — S'cuse me, Enuner, it jumped out o' my
mouth afore I thought. [Then with a grin.^ You'd
ought to be used to that part o' men's wickedness —
with your Pa and Jack cussin* about the house all
the time.

906

BrPPTlBNT

EuifA — [TTift a (iRtZf.] Oh, I haven't no strict
n-Iigious notions about it. I'm hardened in sin so
faHs they're concerned. Goodness me, how would
Mn and me ever have lived in the same house with
them two if we wasn't used to it? I don't even notice
their cussing no more. And I don't mind hearing it
from the other men, either. Being sea-faring men,
away from their women folks most of the time, I
know it just ^ts to be part of their natures anci
they ain't responsible, [DecUivdy.'] But jou'»
diflTnent. You just got to be diff'rent from the rest

Caleb — [Amuted bff her seriousnest.^ Diff'rent^
Ain't I a sea-forin' man, too?

EMMA^You're difTrent just the same. That'l
what made me fall in love with you 'stead of any o
them. And you've got to stay diff'rent. Promisa
me, Caleb, that you'll always stay diffrent frod
them — even after we're married years and years.

Caleb — [Embarrassed.^ Why — I promise to dfl
my best by you, Emmer. You know that, don't yeP
On'y don't ^t the notion in your head I'm any beb
ter*n the rest. They're all good men — most of 'em
anyway. Don't tell me, for instance, you think TO
better'n your Pa or Jack — 'cause I ain't. And 1
don't know as I'd want to be, neither.

Emma — \ExcitedJy.'\ But you got to want tob
—when I ask it.

Caleb — [Surprised.'] Better'n your Pa?

Emma — [Strugglvng to convey her ■mea/wmg.\
Why, Pa's all right. He's a fine man — and JacW

DIPF'RENT ton

all right, too. I wouldn't hear a bad word about
them for anything. And the others are all right in
their way, too, I s'pose. Only— don't you see what
I mean? — I look on you as difPrent from all of them.
I mean there's things that's all right for them to do
that wouldn't be for you — in my mind, anyway.

Caleb — [Puzzled and a bit wmast/.^ Sailors ain't
plaster saints, Emmer, — not a dam one of 'em ain't !

Emma- — J^Hurt and disappointed.^ Then you won't
promise me to stay diff'rent for my sake?

Caleb — [TFtfA rough tenderness.^ Oh, hell,
Emmer, I'll do any cussed thing in the world you
want me to, and you know it !

Emma — [Lovin-glif.^ Thank yon, Caleb. It means
a lot to me — more'n you think. And don't you think
I'm diiTrent, too — not just the same as all the other
girls hereabouts?

Caleb — 'Course you be! Ain't I always said that?
You're wo'tli the whole pack of 'em put together.

Emma — Oh, I don't moan I'm any better. I mean
I just look at things diff'rent from what they do —
getting married, for example, and other things, too.
And so I've got it fixed in my head that you and me
oug'ht to make a married couple — diff'rent from the
rest — not that they ain't all right in their way,

Caleb — \_Puzzled — -iimceriainlif.^ Waal — it's
bound to be from your end of it, you bein' like you
are. But I ain't so sure o' mine.

Emma — ^Well, I am '.

Caleb — [TTi^A a grin.'\ You got me scared,

(08

D!W*HBf^

Emtner. I'm scared you'll want me to live up to one
of them high-fangled heroes you been readin' about
in them books. [He mdicate$ the -nov^ on the
table.]

Emua — No, I don't. I want you to be just lite
yourself, that's all.

Caleb — That's easy. It ain't bard bein* a plain,
ordinary cuss.

Emma — You are not !

Caleb — [ With a laugh.] Remember, I'm wamin'
you, Emmer; and after we're married and you find
me out, you can't say I got you under no false pre-
tences,

Emma — [Lau-ghmg.] I won't. I won't ever need
to. [Then after a pauie.l Just think, it's only two
days more before you and me'll be man and wife.

Caleb — [Squeezing kcr.] Waal, it's about time.
ain't it? — after waitin' three years for mc to git
enough money saved — and us not scein' hide or hair
of each other the last two of 'em. [ With a laugh.]
Shows ye what trust I put in you, Emmer, when 1
kin go off on a two year whalin' vige and leave you all
lone for all the young fellers in town to make eyes
at.

Emua — But lots and lots of the others does t
same thing without thinking nothing about it.

Caleb — [Tl'tfA a laugh,] Yes, but I'm diff'renti I
like you says.

Emua — [Lav^twig.] Oh, you're poking fim no". I

Caleb — [With a mnk.] And you know as welTi I

DIPP-RENT «09

me that some o' the others finds out some funny
things that's been done when they was away.

Emma — [Laughing at first.^ Yes, but you know
I'm diff'rent, too, [Then froTiming.} But don't let's
talk about that sort o' ructions. I hate to tiiink of
such things — even joking. I ain't like that sort.

Caieb^ — ^Thunder, I know you ain't, Emmer. I
was on'y jokin'.

Emma — ^And I never doubted you them two years;
and I won't when you sail away again, neither.

Caxeb — [FFtf/i a twinkle in Ms eye,"] No, even a
woman'd find it hard to git jealous of a whale!

Emma — [^Laughing.^ I wasn't thinking of whales,
silly ! But there's plenty of diversion going on in
the ports you touched, if you'd a mind for it.

Caleb — Waal, I didn't have no mind for it, that's
sartin. My fust vige as skipper, you don't s'pose I
had time for no monkey-shinin', do ye? Why, I was
that anxious to bring back your Pa's ship with a fine
vige that'd make him piles o' money, I didn't even
think of nothin' else.

Emma — 'Cepting me, I hope?

Caleb — 0' course ! What was my big aim in doin'
it if it wasn't so's we'd git married when I come to
homeP And then, s'far as ports go, we didn't tech
at one the last year — ^'ceptin' when that dum tem-
pest blowed us south and we put in at one o' the
Islands for water.

Emma — What island? You never told me noth-
ing about that.

«10 DIFFRENT

Caleb — [Growing suddenly very embarraased am
if some memory occurred to him.] Ain't nothin* fM
tell, that's why. Juat an island near the Line, that'lj
all. O'ny naked heathen livin' there — ^brown cokl
ored savages that ain't even Christians. '[He gets («
his feet abruptly and pvlls out his taatch.] Gittin'j
late, must be. I got to go down to the store and git
some things for Harriet afore I forgets 'em,

Emma — [Rising also and putting her hajids on hil
shoulders.] But jou did think of me and miss me all
the time you was gone, didn't you?— same as I did
you.

Caleb — 'Course I did. Every minute,

Emma — [Nestling closer to him — softlj/.] I'm
glad of that, Caleb. Well, good-bye for a little while.

Caleb — I'll step in again for a spell afore supper
— that is, if you want me to.

EsiMA—Yes, course I do, Caleb. Good-bye, [Sht
lifts her face to his.]

Caleb— Good-bye, Emmer, [He hitses her and
holds Iter in his arms for a mom,ent. Jack comet up
the walk to tlie screen door. They do not notice hit
approach.]

Jack — [Peermg in, and seeing them — in a jokmg
hellow.] Belay, there ! [They separate with startled
exclamations. Jack comes in grmnrng. He is a
hAdking, stocky-built young fellow of £5. His heavjf
face is sunburned, handsome in a course, good-nat-
ured animal fashion. His sm^M blue eyes twinkU
with the unconsciously malicious humor of tlu horn

DIFFTIENT 211

practical joker. He wean thigh teabools turned
do-wn from, the knee», dirty cotton ihirt and pant»,
and a yeUbw sotCwester pushed jawntUy on the back
of his head, revealing his dishevelled, curly blond
hair. He carries a string of cod h^ads.'\

Jack — [Laughing at the embarrassed expression
on their facesj] Caught ye that time, by gum! Go
ahead! Kiss her again, Caleb. Don't mind me.

Emma — [TFifA flurried annoyance.^ You got a
head on you just like one of them cod heads you're
carrying— that stupid! I should think you'd be
ashamed at your age — shouting to scare folks as jf
you was a little boy.

Jack — [Putting his arm about her waist.'] There,
kitty, don't git to spittin'. {Stroking her hair.~\
Puss, puss, puss! Nice kitty! [^He laugha.J

Emma — [Forced to STnile — pusliing hvm. away.^
Get away ! You'll never get sense. Land sakes,
what a brother to have!

Jack — Oh, I dunno. I ain't so bad, aa brothers
go — eh, Caleb?

Caleb — [SmUing.^ I reckon youll do. Jack.

Jack — See there! Listen to Caleb. You got to
take his word — love, honor, and obey, ye know,
Emmer.

Emma — [Laughing.^ Leave it to men folks to
stick up for each other, right or wrong.

Jack — [Cockily.'\ Waal, I'm willin' to leave it to
the girls, too. Ask any of 'em you knows if I ain't a

a»

DIFFBENT

jim-dandy to have for a brother. \^He xvmki
Cai^b a/ho grin* back at him.']

Emma — [Wiife a sniff.] I reckoa you don't play
much brother with them — the kind you knows. You
may fool 'em into believing you're some pumpkins
but they'd change their minds if they had to live in
the same house with you playing silly jokes all the
time.

Jack — [Provokingljf.] A good lot on 'em 'd be
on'y too damn glad to git me in the same house — i[ I
was fool enough to git married.

Emma — "Pride goeth before a fall," But shucks,
what's the good paying any attention to you. [She
ainiles at him affectionately/.']

Jack — [Exaggeratedly.] You see, Caleb? See
how she misuses me — ^her lovin' brother. Now you
know what youll be up against for the rest o' your
natural days.

Caleb — Don't sec no way but what I got to bear
it, Jack.

Emma — Caleb needn't fear. He's diff'rent.

Jack— [With a stulden guff ani.] Oh, hell, yes! I
was forgittin'. Caleb's a Sunday go-to-meetin' SainI
ain't he? Yes, he is !

Emma — [With real resentvient.] He's bettei
what you are, if that's what you mean.

Jack — [With a still louder laugh.^ Ho-ho'
Caleb's one o' them goody-goody heroes out o' them
story books you're always readin', ain't he?

I
intj

DIFFRENT 818

FCaleb — [Sobedy — a bit diiturbed.'\ I was tellin''
Emmer not to take me that high.

Jack — No use, Caleb. She won't hear of it, She'a
got her head sot t'other way. You'd ought to heard
her argj'in' when you was gone about what a parson's
pet you was. Butter won't melt in your mouth, no
siree! Waal, love is blind^ — and deaf, too, as the
feller says — and I can't argy no more 'cause I got to
give Ma these heads. [He goes to tlie door on right
— then glances back at his sister maliciously amd says
Tiwaningly.^ You ought to have a talk with Jim
Benson, Emmer. Oughtn't she, Caleb. [He winks
ponderously arid goes off laiighing uproariously.^

Caleb — [His face worried and angry.^ Jack's a
dum fool at times, Emmer — even if he is your
brother. He needs a good lickin'.

Emma — [Staring at him — uneasUy.^ What'd he
mean about Jim Benson, Caleb?

Caleb — [FroTiming.l I don't know — ezactly.
Makin' up foolishness for a joke, I reckon.

^£•MUA — You don't know — exactly? Then there is
BomethingP
Caleb — [Qvickiy.^ Not as I know on. On'y Jim
Benson's one o' them slick jokers, same's Jack; can't
keep their mouths shet or mind their own business.

Emma — Jim Benson was mate with you this last
trip, wasn't he?
Caleb — ^Yea.

Emma — Didn't him and you get along?
Caleb — [A trifle impatiently. 1 'Course we did*

an* DIFFVENT

Jim's all right. We got along fust rate. He
cnn't keep his tongae from waggin*, that's all's
mattvr with him.

Emua — lUneasUy.} What's it got to wag about
Vou ain't done nothing wrong, have you?

Caleb — Wrong? No, nothin' a man'd rightly c
wrong.

Emma — Nothing you'd be shamed to tell me?

Caleb — [ Awkwardly. 1 Why — no, Emmcr.

Emma — [Pleadingly.] You'd swear that, Caleb

Caj.eb — [Hetilating for a lecond — then finnljf:
Yes, I'd swear. I'd own up to everything fair a
square I'd ever done, if it comes to that p'int. I ain
shamed o' anything I ever done, Emmer. On'y-
womfii folks ain't got to know everything, have they

Emma — [Tunmig awat/ from him — frightenedl^
Oh, Caleb!

Caleb — [Preoccupied mth his own thoaghtt-
going to the door in rear.] I'll sec you later, Ei
racr. I got to go up street now more'n ever.
to give that Jim Benson a talkin' to he won't forg
in a hurry — that is, if he's been tellin' tales,
bye, Emmer.

Emma — [Faintly.'] Good-bye, Caleb. [He go
out. She sits in (me of the rockers hy the table, hil
face greatly troubled, her manner nervou* and m
easy. FinaUy sh^r makes a decision, goes gaickly i
the door on the right and caUs.] Jack! Jack!

Jack — [From the kitchen.] Wliat you want?

Emma — Come here a minute, will you?

DIFF'RENT

S15

Jack— Jest a second. \^She comes back by the

ible, fighting to conceal her agitation. After a

\oment. Jack comes m from the right. He has evi-

mtly been washing up, for hit face is red (md shint/,

Im hair wet and slicked m a part, Hff looks around

tor Caleb.] Where's Caleb?

Emma — He had to go up street. [Then coming to-

point abruptly — with feigned indifference.^

Tiat's that jote about Jim Benson, Jack? It

med to get Caleb all riled up.

jAcK-^[H'i(A a chuckle.l You got to ask Caleb'
»Out that, Emmer.

Emma — ^I did. He didn't seem to want to own up
8 anything.

! Jack — [IFiifc a laugh-l 'Course he wouldn't. He-
tti*t 'predate a joke when it's on him.
EuMA- — ^How'd you come to hear of it?
Jack — From Jim. Met him this afternoon and me
1 him Imd a long talk. He was tellin' me all 'bout
eir vige.
PIEmma — Then it was on the vige this jote hap-
med?

Jack — Yes. It was when they put in to git water
Pt them South Islands where the tempest blowed 'em.
Emma — Oh. [Suspiciously,'] Caleb didn't seem
[ng to tell me much about their touching there.
I Jack — [Chuckling.] 'Course he didn't. Wasn't I
■ryin''t!ie joke's on him? [Coming closer to her — in
I low, confidential tone, chucklingly.l Well fix up a
(oJie on Caleb, Eramer, what d'ye say?

«16 DIFPRENT

EicMA — [Tortured by forebodinff — resolved to
find out what ii hack of all this hy hook or crook^
forcing a smUe.^ All right. Jack. I'm willing.

Jack — ^Then ITl tell you what Jim told me. And
you put it up to Caleb, see, and pertend you're mad-
dcr'n hell. [Vnahle to restrain his mirthS\ Ho-ho!
It'll git him wild if you do that. On'y I didn't tdl
vc, mind ! You heard it from someone else. I dont
want to git Caleb down on me. And you'd hear
about it from someone sooner or later 'cause Jim and
the rest o' the boys has been tellin' the hull town.

Emma — [Taken aback — frowning.'] So all the
town knows about it?

Jack — ^Yes, and they're all laffin' at Caleb. Ohj
it ain't nothin' so out o' the ordinary. Most o' the
whalin' men hereabouts have run up against it in
their time. I've heard Pa and all the others tdlin'
stories like it out o' their experience. On'y with CalA
it ended up so damn funny! [He laughs. 1 Ho-ho!
Jimminy !

Emma — [In a strained voice.] Well, ain't you
going to tell me?

Jack — ^I'm comin' to it. Waal, seems like they all
went ashore on them islands to git water and the
native brown women, all naked a'most, come round to
meet 'em same as they always does — ^wantin' to swap
for terbaccer and other tradin* stuff with straw mats
and whatever other junk they got. Them brown gals
was purty as the devil, Jim says — that is, in their
heathen, outlandish way — ^and the boys got maldn'

DIFP*RENT 917

ap to 'em ; and then, o' course, everything happened
like it always does, and even after they'd got all the
water they needed aboard, it took 'em a week to
round up all hands from where they was foolin' about
with them nigger women.

Emma — [In anguisk.J Yes — but Caleb^he ain't
fike them others. He's difTrent.

Jack — [TTiiA a sly vmk.^ Oho, is he? I'm comin'

Caleb. Waa], seems s'if he kept aboard mindin' his
own business and winkin' at what the boys was doin'.
And one o' them gals — the purtiest on 'em, Jim says
— she kept askin', where's the captain? She wouldn't
liave no thin' to do with any o' the others. She
■thought on'y the skipper was good enough for her, I
reckon. So one night jest afore they sailed some o'
the boys, bein' drunk on native rum they'd stole,
planned to put up a joke on Caleb and on that brown
gal, too. So they tells her the captain had sent for
}ier and she was to swim right out and ^t aboard the
ship where he was waitin' for her alone. That part
of it was true enou^ 'cause Caleb was alone, all
hands havin' deserted, you might say.

Emma — [Letting an involwntary exclamation es-
cape herJ] Oh !

Jack — Waal, that fool brown gal b'lieved 'em and
she swum right off, tickled to death. What hap-
pened between 'em when she got aboard, nobody
Itnows. Some thinks one thing and some another.
And I ain't sayin' nothin* 'bout it — [With a jottiJ:.]
but I know damn well what I'd 'a done in Caleb's

SIFVRSaVT

bnots, and I guess he ain't the cussed old woman yon
makes him out. But that part of it's got aothin' to
do with the joke nohow. The joke's this: that brown
gal took an awful shine to Caleb and when she sav
the ship was gittin' ready to sail she raised ructions,
standin* on the beach howlin' and screanun', and
beatin' her chest with her fists. And when they upi
anchor, she dives in the w.ler and swims out aflM
'era. There's no wind hardly and she kin swim like
a fish and catches up to 'em and tries to climb aboard
At fust, Caleb tries to tivat her gentle and
with her to go back. But she won't listen, she
wilder and wilder, and finally he gits sick of it
has the boys push her off with oars while he goes
hides in the cabin. Even this don't work She keep
swimmin' round and yellin' for Caleb. And finallj
they has to p'int a gun at her and shoot in thi
water near her afore the crazy cuss gives up ax
swims hack to home, howlin' all the time. [TFiffc
chuckle.] And Caleb lyin'Iow in the cabin skeeredl
move out, and all hands splittin' their sides ! Gosh,
wish I'd been there ! It must have been funnier'n hell
[He laughs loudly — thffn noticing his sister's itonf
expression, stops abruptly.'l What're you pulliB
that long face for, Eraraer.'* [Offemledltf.'] HS,
you're a nice one to tell a joke to !

Emma — [After a pause — forcing the words
slowlp.l Caleb's comin' back here, Jack. I want
to see him for me, I want you to tell

dB'ren^^^^^^iI^

Jack — Not me! You got to play this joke on
him yourself or it won't work.

Emma — [Tenseli/.'] This ain't a joke, Jack —
what I mean. I want you to tell him I've changed
my mind and I ain't going to marry him.

Jack— What !

Emma — I been thinking things over, tell him — and
I take back my promise — and he can have back his
ring- — and I ain't going to marry him.

Jack — \_Flabbergasted — peering into her face

anxiously.^ Say — what the hell ? Are you

tryin' to josh me, Emmer? Or are you gone crazy
all of a sudden?

Emma — I ain't joking nor crazy neither. You tell
him what I said.

Jack — [Vehemently.^ I will like Say,

what's come over you, anyhow?

Emma — My eyes are opened, that's all, and I ain't
going to marry him.

Jack — Is it — 'count of that joke about Caleb I
was tellin' you?

Emma — [Her voice tre7nbling.'\ It's 'count of
something I got in my own head. What you told
only goes to prove I was wrong about it.

Jack — [Greatly perturbed norc.] Say, what's the
matter? Can't you take a joke? Are you mad at
him 'count o' that brown gal?

Emma — Yes, I am— and I ain't going to marry
him and that's all there is to it.
L Jack — [Argumentatively.^ Jealous of a brown.

heathen woman that ain't no better'n a niggcrP God
■alecs, Emmcr, I didn't think ;ou was that big a fooL
Why them kind o' women ain't women like you. TheJ
don't count like folks. They ain't Christians — nor
nothin* !

Emma — That ain't it. I don't care what they ftit

Jack — And it wasn't Caleb anyhow. It was al
her fixin*. And how'd you know he had anything b
do with her— like that? I ain't said he did. Jiffl
couldn't swear he did neither. And even if he did-
what difference does it make? It ain't rightly n
o' your business what he does on a vige. He didn't
ask her to marry him, did he?

Emma — I don't care. He'd ougfit to have acted
difTrent.

Jack — Oh golly, there you go agen makin* t
durned crecpin'- Jesus out of him! What d'you want
to marry, anyhow — a man or a sky-pilot? Caleb's
a man, ain't he? — and a damn good man and i
smart a skipper as there be in these parts! Whai
more d'you want, anyhow?

Emma — [Violently.} I want you to shet up
You're too dumb stupid and bad yourself to eve
know what I'm thinking.

Jack — [Reaenlfullp.'} Go to the devil, then! Va
goin' to toll Ma and sic her onto you. You'll mayb
listen to her and git some sense. \Hc stamps owft
right, ■while he is speaking. Emma bursts into sobt
and throws herself on a chair, covering her face iriiJ
her liands. Haeriet Williams and Alfeed Rogebi

DIFPRENT 221

r eome up the path to the door ira rear. Peering
through the screen and catching sight of Emma,
Haesiet calls.'] Emmer! [Emma leaps to her feet
and dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief in a vain
effort to conceal traces of her tears. Haeriet has
come in, followed by Rogebs. Caleb's sister is a tall,
dark girl of twenty. Her face is plainly Homely and
yet attracts the eye by a certain boldly-appealing
vitality of self-confident youth. She wears an apron
and has evidently just- come out of the kitchen.
RoGEES is a husky yowng fisherman of twenty-four,
washed and sUcked'up m his HX-ftting best."]

Rogebs — Hello, Emmer.

Emma- — [Huskily, trying to force,a smUe.^ Hello,
Harriet. Hello, Alfred. Won't jou set?

Haeeiet — No, I jest run over from the house a
second to see if Where's Caleb, Emmer?

Emma — He's gone up street.

Haebiet— And here I be waitin' in the kitchen for
him to bring back the things so's I can start liis sup-
per. [With a laugKand a roguish look at Rogebs.]
Dearie me, it ain't no use dependin' on a man to re-
member nothin' when he's in love.

RoGEKS — [PuttiTig his arm about her waist and
giving her a squeeze — grinding.] How 'bout me?
Ain't I in love and ain't I as reliable as an old hoss ?

Haeeiet— Oh, jon! You're the worst of 'em all.

Rogebs — ^You don't think so. \He tries to kiss
lier.l

DIFFTRENT

HABHtET — Stop it. Ain't you got no maimera
What^l Eimner think?

Rogers— Einmer can't throw stones. Her an
Caleb is worser at spoonin' than what we are. [Ha]
KtBT breaks away from him laughingly and goes tt
Emma.]

Harriet — [Suddenly noticing the expression i
misery on Emma's face — astonished.^ Why, Enune
Crosby, what's the matter? You look as if you'd loB
your last friend.

Emma — [^Tryitig to smUe.'} Notlung. It's noth
ing.

Harriet — It is, too! Why, I do believe you'T
been crying!

Emma — No, I ain't.

Harriet— You have, too! [Putting her arm
about Emma.] Goodness, what's happened? Yo|
and Caleb ain't had a spat, have you, with you
wcddin' only two days off?

Emma — [ With quick resentful resolution.^
ain't going to be any wedding.

Harriet — What !

Rogers — [Prickijtg up hia ears — ijiquisitiDely.]
Huh?

Emma — ^Not in two days nor no time.

Harriet — [Dumbforinded,^ Why, Emmer Crosbj
Whatever's got into you? You and Caleb must hafl
had an awful spat!

Rogers — [tVifA a manrof-the-woTld attitude t

DIFF'RENT 223

racism.^ Don't take her so dead serious, Harriet,
Emmer'll git over it like you all does.

Emua — [AitgrUi/.J You shet up, Alf Rogers!
[Mbs. CaosBY enters hwttlin^y from the right. She
is a large, fat, florid woman of fifty. In spite of her
two hwid-red and more povmdg she is surprisingly ac-
tive, and tlie passive, lazy expression of her rowtid
moon face is bdied by her quick, efficient movements.
She exudes an atmosphere of motherly good nature.
She wears an apron on wldcK she is drying her hands
as she enters. Jack follows her into the room. He
has changed to a dark suit, is ready for "up street."^

Mas. Crosby — [SmUiTig at Haeeiet and Rogees.]
Afternoon, Harriet — and Alf.

Hah EIET-— Afternoon, Ma,

Ro GEB s — ^Af t em oo n .

Jack — [Grinning.] There she be, Ma. IPoints
to Emma.] Don't she look like she'd scratch a fel-
ler's eyes out! Phew! Look at her back curve!
Meow? Sptt-sptt! Nice puss! [He gives a vivid,
imitation of a cat fight at this last. Then he and
Rogers roar with laughter and Harriet cannot re-
strain a giggle and Mrs. Crosby smUes. Emma
stares stonily before'her as if she didn't hear.]

Mrs. Crosby — [Good-^nafurcdly.J Shet up your
foolin'. Jack.

Jack — [Pretending to be hurt.] Nobody in tliis

house kin take a joke. [He grins and beckons to

, RoGEfts.] Come along, Alf, You kin 'preciate a

yoke. Come on in here till I tell you, [The grinning

9it«

DIFPRENT

Rogers follows him into the next room where t}te^
can be heard talking and laughing dv.ring the foUai
ing scene. ^

Mhs. Crosby — [SmUing, puts her arms
Emma.] Waal, Emmer, what's this foolishness Jack*
been tellin' about

Emma — [Resentfully. 1 It ain't foolishness, Ms
I've made up ray mind, I tell you that right here a
now.

Mbs. CaosBY^ — -\^After a quick glance at her face-
soothingly.^ There, there! Let's set down and 1
comfortable. Me, I don't relish roostin' on my fee*
[She pushes Emma gently into a rocker — then point
to a chair on the other side of the table.'] Set doi
Harriet.

Haekiet — [Tom between curiositi/ and a serue o
being one too tjmiji^.] Maybe I'd best go to home
and leave you two alone?

Mks. Crosby — Shuck^! ^in't you like d
family — Caleb's sister and livin' right next door evi
since you was all children playin' together. We ain
got no secrets from you. Set down. [Harriet dot
so with an uncertain glance at the frozen Euu
Mrs. Crosby has efficiently bustled another rocki
beside her daughter's and sits down with a comfor
able sigh.] There. [She reaches over and takes o
of her dajighter's hands in hers.] And now, Emnw
what's all this fuss over? [As Emma makes no i
ply-] Jack says as you've sworn you was breaki
with Caleb. Is that true?

DIPFRENT mS

Emma — ^Yes.

Mbs. CaosBY — ^Hmm. Caleb don't know this yet,
does heP

Emma — Vo. I asked Jack to tell him when he
comes back.

Mrs. Crosby — Jack says be won't.

Emma — ^Then I'll tell him myself. Maybe that's
better, anyhow. Caleb'U know what I'm driving at
and see my reason — [Bitterly.J^ — which nobody else
seems to.

Mas. Ceosbt — Hmm. You ain't tried me yet.
[_After a patue.l Jack was a dumb fool to t^ you
'boat them goin's-on at them islands tliey teched.
Ain't no good rcpcatin' sech things.

Emma — iSurprised-l Did you know about it be-
fore Jack

Mes. Ceobby — Mercy, yes. Your Pa heard it from
Jim Benson fust thing they landed here, and Pa told
me that night.

Emma^ — [Resentfully.'] And you never told me!

Mhs. Ceosbt — Mercy, no. Course I didn't. They'a
trouble enough in the world without makin' more. If
you was like most folks I'd told it to you. Me, I
thought it was a good joke on Caleb.

Emma^ — -IWith a shudder.1 It ain't a joke to me.

Mbs. Ceosby — That's why I kept my mouth shet.
I knowed you was touchy and different from most.

Emma — [Proudly.] Yes, I am diff'rent — and
that's just what I thought Caleb was, too — and he
ain't.

£»

DIFFHENT

Haeiikt — [Breaking in exiitedlff.'] Is it that
Btory about Caleb and that heathen brown woman
you're talking about? Is that what you're mad at
Caleb for, Einnier?

Meb. Ceobbt — [At EuHA remaint tiUnt,'] Yes,
Harriet, that's it.

Habeiet — [Aitoruthed.l Why, Eminer Crosby,
how can you be so silly? You don't s'pose Caleb tool
it serious, do you, and him makin' them fire shota
round her to scare licr back to land and get rid of
her? Good gracious! [A bit resent fuUy.'] I hope
you ain't got it In your head my brother Caleb would
sink so low as to fall in love serious with one of than
critters?

Emma — [Harshly.^ He might just as well.

Hakeiet — [Bridling.'] How can you say seeh a
thing! [SarcasticaUif.l I ain't heard that Caleb
offered to marry her, have you? Tlien you migh!

have some cause But d'you s'pose he's ever givi

her another thought? Not Caleb! I know him bei
ter'n that. He'd forgot all about the liull thing be-
fore they was out o' sight of land. 111 bet, and if
them fools hadn't started this story going, he'd never
remembered it again.

Mrs. Crosby — [Nodding.l That's jest it. Har-
riet's right, Emmer.

Ehma — Ma !

Mbs. Crosby — Besides, you don't know they was
nothin' wrong happened. Nobody kin swear that for
sartin. Ain't that so, Harriet?

DIFF-RENT 327

Hak^iet — [^Hesitating — then franklt/.1 I don't
know, Caleb ain't no plaster saint and I reckon he's
as Ukelj to sin that way as any other man. He
wasn't married then and I s'posc he thought he was
free to do as he'd a mind to till he was hitched up.
Goodness sakes, Kmmer, all the men thinks that —
and a lot of 'em after they're married, too.

AIks. Cbosey — Harriet's right, Enuner. Tf you've
been wide awake to all that's happened in this town
tiince you was old enough to know, you'd ouglit to
realize what men be.

Harkiet — [ScomfjiUff.'] Emma'd ought to fallen
in love with a, minister, not b sailor. As for me, I
wouldn't give a dum about a man that was too
goody-goody to raise cain once in a while — before he
married me, 1 mean. Why, look at Alf Rogers,
Emnier. I'm going to marry him some day, ain't I?
But I know right well all the foolin' he's done — and
still is doing, I expect. I ain't sayin' I like it but I
do like him and I got to take him the way he is, that's
all. If you're looking for saints, you got to die first
and go to heaven. A girl'd never git married here-
abouts if she expected too much,

Mbs. Rogebs — Harriet's right, Enamer.

Smma — [ResentfuUi/.'] — -Maybe she is. Ma, from
her side. I ain't claiming she's wrong. Her and me
just looks at things diifrent, that's all. And she
can't understand the way I feel about Caleb.

Haekiet — Well, there's one thing certain, Emmer.

338

DIFPRENT
man in a day's walk is any better^

You won't find a
Caleb— or as good.

Emma — [WearUp.l I know that, Harriet.

Hakbiet — Then it's all right. You'll make up wit
him, and I s'posc I'm a fool to be takin* it so eerious.
[As Emma shakes her head.^ Oh, yes, you will. You
wouldn't want to get him all broke up, would you?
[As Emma keeps silent — irritably-l Story book no-
tions, that's the trouble with you, Emmer. You're
gettin' to think you're better'n the rest of us.

Emma^ — [VeheTnentl^.'l No, I don't! Can't jo

Mks. Chosby — Thar, now ! Don't you two pt tol
fightin' — to make things worse.

Hae,eiet — [Repentantly, coming and putting her 1
arms arownd Emma and kissing A^r.] I'm sorryi
Emmer. You know I wouldn't fall out with you for
nothing or nobody, don't you? Only it gits me riled J
to think of how awful broke up Caleb'd be if —
you'll make it all up with him when he comes, won^
you? [Emma stares stubbornly before her. Befof
she has a chance to reply a roar of laughter cot
from tlie next room as Jack leijids up Ms tale.'\

RoGEES — [From the next room.^ Gosh, I wishd
I'd been there! [He follows Jack into the root
Both are grinning broadly. Rogeks says teasinglM
Reckon 111 take to whalin' 'stead o' fishin' after t
You won't mind, Harriet? From what I bears 1
them brown women, I'm missin' a hull lot by stayin*!
home.

DIFFERENT 229

Haekiet — [/» a joking tone — Tcith a meaning
glance at Emma. J Go on, then ! There's plenty of
fish in the sea. Anyhow, I'd never git jealous of your
foolin' with one o' them heathen critters. They ain't
worth notice from a Christian.

Jack — Oho, ain't they! They're purty as pic-
tures, Benson says, [Wtfft a wwik.'] And mighty
accommodatin' in their ways. [^He and Rogers roar
delightedly. Emma shudders with retmlsion.^

Mrs. Crosby — [Aware of her daughter's -feelvng —
smUvngly but ^rmZt/.] Get out o' this, Jack. You,
too, Alf. Go on up street if you want to joke.
I You're in my way.

Jack — ^Aw right. Ma, Come on up street, Alf.

Habriet — Wait. I'll go with you a step. I got
to see if Caleb's got back with them supper things.
[They aU go to the door in rear. Jack cmd Rogers
pass out, talking and laughing. Harriet turns Jra
the doorway — sympathetically. "l I'll give Caleb a
talking to before he comes over. Then it'll be easy
for you to finish him. Treat him firm but gentle and
youTl see he won't never do it again in a hurry. After
ail, lie wasn't married, Emmer — and he's a man —
and what can you expect? Good-bye. [She goes.'\

Emma — [Inaudibly.^ Good-bye.

Mrs. Crosby — [After a pause in which she rocks
hack and forth studying her daughter's face — plac-
idly.^ Harriet's right, Emmer. You give him a
good talkin*-to and he won't do it again.

S90

DrFFRENT

Emma — [Coldly,^ I don't care whether he does or
not. I ain't going to marry him.

Mrs, Crosby — [ Uneasy — persitanvely.'\ Mercy,
you can't act like that, Emraer. Here's the weddin'
on'y two days ofF, and everytliin' fixed up with the
minister, and your Pa and Jack has bought new
clothes spcshul for it, and I got a new dress

Emma — [Tumimg to her mother — pleadingly,^
You wouldn't want me to keep my promise to Caleb
if you knew I'd be unhappy, would you. Ma?

Mks. Ceosby — [Hesitatingly.^ N-no, Emmer.
[Then decisively.l 'Course I wouldn't. It's because
I know he'U make you happy. [As Emha shakes her
head.^ Shaw, Emmer, you can't tetl me you've got
over all likin' for him jest 'count o' this one foolish-
ness o' hisQ.

Emma — I don't love him — ^what he is now. I loved
— what I thought he was.

Mrs. Crosby — [More and more wneasy."] That's
all your queer notions, and I don't know where you
gits them from. Caleb ain't changed, neither have
you. Why, Emmer, it'd be jest like goin' agen «
act of Nature for you not to marry him. Ever since |
you was children you been livin' side by side, goifli
round together, and neither you nor him ever t
seem to care for no one else. Shucks, Emmer, youl
git me to lose patience with you if you act I
stubborn. You'd ought to remember all he's been ^
you and forget this one little wrong he's done.

Emua — I can't. Ma. It makee him another per- 1

231

son — not Caleb, but someone just lite all the others.

Mbs. Ckosby — Waal, is the others so bad? Men
is men the world over, I reckon.

EsiMA — No, they ain't bad. I ain't saying that.
Don't I like 'em all? If it was one of the rest — ^like
Jim Benson or Jack, even — had done this I'd thought
it was a joke, too. I ain't strict in judging 'em and
you know it. But — can't you see. Ma? — Caleb al-
ways seemed difTrent — and I thought he was.

Mrs. CnossY—lSomewhat impatiently/. "] Waal, if
he ain't, he's a good man jest the same, as good as
any sensible girl'd want to marry.

Emma — [SloTdy.l I don't want to marry nobody
no more. I'll stay single.

Mrs, Ceosby — [ToMntiagli/.^ An old maid!
[TAffTO resent f idly. ^ Emmer, d'you s'pose if I'd had
your high-fangled notions o' what men ought to be
when I was your age, d'you s'pose you'd ever be set-
tin' tliere now?

Emma— [iS/owZ^,] No, , I know from what I can
guess from his own stories Pa never was no saint,

Mas. Crosby — [In a tone of finality a^ if this set-
tled the inatter.^ There, now! And ain't he been as
good a husband to me as ever lived, and a good
father to you and Jack? You'll find out CaleVll turn
out the same. You think it over. [Slie gets up —
hustlingly.'{ And now I got to git back in the
kitchen.

Emma — [ Wringing her hands—desperately.^ Oh,

Ma, whj can't you see wliat I feel? Of course, Pa's
good — as good as good can be

Captain Ceosby — I^Ftovi outside the door which
lie has approached without their noticing hvm — m a
jovial bdlow.} What's that 'bout Pa bt-in' good?]
[He cojms in laughing. He is a squat, boar-leggei
poieerfid -man, almost as broad as he is long-
years old but stiU in the prime of health and strength
with a great, red, weather-beaten face seamed by «
wrinkles. His sandy hair is thick and disheveUeiM
He is dressed in an old baggy suit much tlie wont
for loear — striped cotton shirt open at the neck,
pats Emma on the back with a playful touch
almost jars lier off her feet.'\ Tliundcrin' Itlose^
that's tlie fust time ever I heerd good o' myself b
listenin'! Most times it's; "Crosby? D'you mean i
that drunken, good-for-nothin', mangy old cuss?"
That's what I hears usual. Thank ye, Emmer. j
[Turning to his wife.'] What ye got to say noifJ
Ma? Here's Emmer tellin' you the truth after yo<
hair-pullin' me all these years 'cause you thought iti
wa'n't. I always told ye I was good, ain't I — good ai
hell I be! [He shakes with laughter and kisses W*
wife a resounding smack.]

Mas, Cuossy — [Teasing lovingly.'] Emmer don't
know you like I do.

Crosby — [Tuminff back to Emma again.'] Look-
a-here, Emmer, I jest seen Jack. He told me some
fool story 'bout you fallin* out with Caleb. Reckon
he was joshin', wa'n't he?

DIFFTIENT «38

Hbs. Chosby— [Q?»cH)/.] Oh, that's all settled,
Tohn. Don't you go stirrin' it up again. [Euma
seem» about to speak but stops helplessly after one
glance at her father,^

Crosby — ^An' all 'count o' that joke they're tellin'
'bout hira and that brown female critter. Jack says.
Hell, Emmer, you ain't a real Crosby if you takes a
joke like that serious. Thunderin' Moses, what the
hell d'jou want Caleb to be — a dumed, he-vir^n,
fikj-pilot? Caleb's a man wo'th ten o' most and, spite
o' his bein' on'y a boy jit, lie's the smartest skipper
out o' this port and you'd ought to be proud you'd
got him. And as for them islands, all whalin' men
knows 'em, I've teched thar for water more'n once
myself, and I know them brown females like a book.
And I tells you, after a year or more aboard ship, a
man'd have to be a goll-dumed gel din' if he
don't

Mes. Cbosdy — {Glancing uneasily at Emma.]
Ssshh! You come out in the kitchen with me, Pa,
and leave Emmer be.

Cbosby — God A'mighty, Ma, I ain't sayin' nothin'
agen Emmer, be I,'' I knows Emmer ain't that crazy.
If she ever got religion that bad, I'd ship her off as
female missionary to the damned yellow Chinks.
{He laughs.^

Mrs. Crosby — {Taking his arm.] You come with
me, I want to talk with you 'bout somethin*.

Ceosby — {Going.^ Aye-aye, skipper! You're
boss aboard here. {He goes out right with her.

laughinff. Euma glands for a vrhUe, xtariaig rtoi
before her. She tight hopelessly, clasping and
clasping her hands, looking arovmd the room as if
she longed to escape from it. Ftnatly alie sits dovm
helplessly and remains fixed in a strained attitude,
her face betraying the conflict that is tormentinri
her. Slow steps sound from the path in front of thf
house. Emma recognizes then and her face free:/:!
into an expression of obstinate intolerance. Calf.b
appears outside the screen door. He looks in, cough
— tlien asks uncertainly.^ It's me, Emmer. Kin I ,
come in ?

^MMA— [Coldly.'] Yes.

Cai.eb — [Comes in and walks down beside
chair. His face is set emotiovlesslj/ but lus eyes i
not conceal a worried bewilderment, a look of
comprehending hurt. He stands uncomfortably,
fumbling with his hat, waiting for her to speak or
look up. As she does TUiither, he finally blurts out.
Kin I set a spell?

Emma — [In the same cold tOTie.] Yes. [He It
crs himself carefvlly to a wooden posture on the edgt
of a rocker near hers^

Caleb — [After a patise.'] I seen Jim Benson. 1.
give Iiim liell. He won't tell no more tales, I recfa
[Another pau^e.'\ I stopped to home on the way ba(
from the store. I seen Harriet. She says Jack'd tol(
you that story they're all tellin' as a joke on 0>*-
[Clenching his fists — angrily.] Jack's a dum fool-
He needs a good lickin' from someone.

DIFFRENT S8S

tA — l^ResentfvUy.l Don't try to put the
e on Jack. He only told me the truth, didn't he?
^Her voice shows that she hopes against hope for a
dertial.']

t Caleb — [After a long pause — regretfully.] Waal,
(uess what he told is true enough.
Emma— [iroOTirffd.] Oh!

Caleb — But that ain't no ^od reason for tellin'
it. Them sort o' things ought to be kept among
men. l^After a pause — gropijtgly.] I didn't want
nothin' like that to happen, Emmer, I didn't mean
it to. I was thinkin' o' how you might feel — even
down there. That's why I stayed aboard all the
time when the boys was ashore. I wouldn't have
b'lieved it could happen — not to me. [A pause.] I
wish you could see them Islands, Emmer, and be there

for a time. Then you might see It's hard's hell

to explain, and you havin' never seen 'em. Every-
thing is different dowTi there — the weather— and the
trees and water. You ^t lookin' at it all, and you
git to feci diff'rcnt from what you do to home here.
It's purty hereabouts sometimes — like now, in spring
—but it's purty tliere all the time — and down there
you notice it and you git feclin' — difiTrent. And
them native women — they're diffrent. A man don't
think of 'cm as women— like you. But they're purty
— in their fashion—and at night they sings — and it's
all ditfrent like something you'd see in a painted
picture. [A pause.] That night when she swum
out and got aboard when I was alone, she caught me

by s'prise. I wasn't expectin' nothin' o' that sort,
tried to make her git back to land at fust — but she
wouldn't go. She couldn't understand enough Eng^
lish for me to tell her how I felt — and I reckon she
wouldn't have seed my p'int anyhow, her bein' a na-
tive. [A paase.^ And then I was afeerd she'd catch
cold goin' round all naked and wet In the moonlight
— though it was warm — and I wanted to wrap a blan-
ket round her. [He stops as if lie had finished.^

EuMA — [After a long, tense pause — dvlly.^ Then
you own up — there really was something happened?

Caleb — [After a paase.^ I was sorry for it,
after. I locked myself in the caHn and left her to
sleep out on deck.

Emma — [After a paute — fixe^y.^ I ain't going
to marry you, Caleb.

Caleb — Harriet said you'd said that ; but I didn't
bTieve you'd let a slip that make — such a diff'reoee.

Emma — [With finality.^ Then you can believe it
now, Caleb.

Caleb — [After a paase.l You got queer, strict
notions, Enuner. A man'll never live up to 'em — ^witlr
never one slip. But you got to act accordin' to your
lights, I expect. It sort o' busts everythin* to Ists

for me [His voice betrays his anguith for d

second hut he instantly regains hit iron control.)
But o' course, if you ain't willin' to take me the way
I be, there's nothin' to do. And w^iatever you thinl;
is best, suits me.

Emma — [After a pause — gropmgly.'\ I wish

DIFF'RENT 237

could explain my side of it — so'a you'd understand.
I ain't got any hard feelings against you, Caleb —
Dot now. It ain't plain jealousy — what I feel. It
ain't even that I tliink you've done nothing terrible
wrong. I think I can understand — how it happened
— and make allowances. I know that most any man
would do the same, and I guess all of 'em I ever met
has done it.

Caleb — [With a glimmer of eager hope.1 Then
— you'll forgive it, Emmer.-'

Emma — Yes, I forgive it. But don't tliink that my
forgiving is going to make any diff'rence — 'cause I
ain't going to marry you, Caleb. That's final.
[^After a pause— 4ntenselp.^ Oh, I wish I could make
you see — my reason. You don't. You never will, I
expect. What you done is just what any other man
would have done — and being like them is exactly
what 11 keep you from ever seeing my meaning.
[After a pause — in a last effort to viake him un-
derstand.^ Maybe it's my fault more'n your'n. It's
like this, Caleb. Ever since we was little I guess I've
always had the idea that you was — diff rent. And
when we growod up and got engaged I thought that
more and more. And you was diff rent, too! And
that was why I loved you. And now you've proved
you ain't. And so how can I love you any more? I
don't, Caleb, and that's all there is to it. YouVe
busted something way down inside me — and I can't
love you no more.

Caleb — [GloomUy.^ I've warned you often, ain't

I, you was Bettin* me up where I'd no business to be.
I'm human like the rest and always was. I ain't diP-
rent. [After a pause — imcertainly,^ I reckon there
ain't no use sajin' nofhin' more. I'll go to home.
[He starts to rise.^

Emma — Wait. I don't want you to go out of
here with no hard feelings. You 'n'me, Caleb, we've
been too close all our lives to ever get to be enemies.
I like you, Caleb, same's I always did, I want ua to
stay friends. I want you to be like one of the family
same's you've always been. Tliere's no reason you
can't. I don't blame you — as a man — for what I
wouldn't hold against any other man. If I find I
can't love you — that way^no more or be your wife,
it's just that I've decided — things being what thej
be and me being what I am — I won't marry no man.
I'll stay single. [Forcing a smile,^ I guess there'i
worse things than being an old maid.

Caleb — I can't picture you that, Enuner. It's
natural in some but it ain't in you. [Then toith a re-
newal of hope.^ And o' course I want to stay friends
with you, Emmer. Tliere's no hard fcelin's on my

side. You got a right to your own way — even if

[Hopefvlly.l And maybe if I show you what I done
wasn't natural to me — by never doin' it again — may-
be the time'Il come when you'll be willin' to for-
get

Emma — [Shaking h^r head — sIowIj/.I It ain't a
question of time, Caleb. It's a question of some-

DIFF'RENT S39

thing being dead. And when a thing's died, time
can't make no difference.

Caieb — l^SturdUy.l You don't know that for
sure, Enuner. You're human, too, and as liable to
make mistakes as any other. Maybe you on'y think
it's dead, and when I come back from the next vige
and you've had two years to think it over, you'll see
diff''rent and know I ain't as bad as I seem to ye now.

EMtiA—[Helplessly.'[ But you don't seem bad,
Caleb. And two years can't make no change in me —
that way.

Caleb — [Feeling himself somehow more and more
hfiarteveJ by fiopc] I ain't givin' up hope, Emmer,
and you can't make me. Not by a hell of a sight.
[With emphasis.^ I ain't never goin' to marry no
woman but you, Emmer. You can trust my word for
that. And I'U wait for ye to change your mind, I
don't give a dum how long it'll take — till I'm sixty
years old — thirty years if it's needful ! [He rises to
his feet as he is speaking this last.^

Ehma — [With a moumfid smUe.'\ You might just
as well say for life, Caleb. In thirty years we'll both
be dead and gone, probably. And I don't want you
to think it's needful for you to stay single 'cause
I

Caleb — I ain't goin' to stay single. I'm goin' to
wait for you. And some day when you realize m«i
was never cut out for angels you'll

Emma — [Helplessly.'\ Me 'n' you'll never under-
stand each other, Caleb, so long as we live. [Get-

240 DIFFRENT

ting up and holding ovA her hand.'] Good-bye, Caleb.
I^m going up and lie down for a spell.

Caleb — \_Made hopeless a^am by her tone —
clasps her hand mechanically — dully.] Grood-bye,
Emmer. \_He goes to the door in the rear, opens it,
then hesitates and looks back at her as she goes out
the door on the right without turning arownd. Sud-
denly he blurts out despairingly.] You'll remember
what I told ye 'bout waitin', Emmer ?' \^She is gorUi
mak^s no reply. His face sets in its concealment
mask of emotionlessness and he turns slowly and
goes out the door as

[The Curtain FaUs.]

ACT TWO

CENE — Thirty years after — the scene ia the same
but not the same. The room has a grotesque
aspect of old age turned flighty and masquerad-
mg as the most empty-headed youth. There is
an obstreperous nenmess about everything.
Orange curtains are at the windows. Th^ car-
pet has given way to a varnished hardwood
floor, its glassy surface set off by three small,
garish-colored rugs, placed with precision in
front of the two doors and wnder the table. The
wall paper is now a cream color sprayed with
pink flowers. Eye-aching seascapes, of the
painted-to-order quality, four in number, in-
cased in gilded frames, are hung on the walls at
m/ithematically spaced intervals. The plush-
covered chairs are gone, replaced by a set of
varnished oak. The horsehair sofa has been
relegated to the attic, A cane-bottomed affair
with fancy cushions serves in its stead, A Vic-
trola is where the old Toahogany chestiJtad been,
A brand mew piano shines resplendently in tha
far right comer by the door, and a bookcase
with glass doors that puU u/p and slide va flanks
the fireplace. This bookcase is ftdl of instaU-

[ DIFFTIENT

menf-pian sets of uncut volumes. The table at
center is of varnished oak. On it are pUes
fashion viagasines and an electric reading lamp.
Oidy the old Bible, which stUl preserves its place
of honor on th^ table, and the marble clock an
the mantel, have survvced the renovation a/ni
serve to emphasize it all the more by contrast.

It is late afternoon of a day m the eatig
spring of the year 1920.

As the curtaUt rises, Emua and Bennt
RoGKRS are discovered. She is seated in a rocker
by the table. He is standing by the Victrola «»
which a jazz band record xs playing. He whit-
tles, goes through the motions of dancing to
the music. He is a young fellow of twenty-ihret^
a replica of his father m Act One, but coarteft
more hardened and cocksure. He is dressed k
the khaki wniform of a private in the Umtei
Stales Army. The thirty years have trot
formed Emma into a withered, scrawny a
But there is something revoltingly incongn
about her, a pitiable sham, a too-apparent i
fort to cheat the years by appearaneet. Tl
white dress she loears is too frilly, too yonthft
for her; so are the lUgh-lieeUd pumps c
clocked sUk stockings. Tltere is an absurd s<
gestion of rouge on Jier tight cheeks and (W
lips, of pencilled make-up abouit her eyes. 1
black of her hair i» brazenly untruthful, Abt
oZl there it shown in her simpering, tdf-coMt

DIFFRENT

S4S

k otuly coquettish manner that laughable — and
' at the same time irritating amd discfiuting —
■mockery of wndigmfied age snatching greedily
I at the empty siyiwiacra of yov/th. She resewhlet
I aome passe stock actress of fifty made up for a
1 heroine of twenty j,

Benny — [As the record stops — iwitclies off the
machine.'] Oh, baby! Some jazz, I'll tell the world!

Emma — [Sm^ing lovingly at his hack,'] I'm glad
jou like it. It's one of them you picked out on the

Benny — Oh, I'm a swell little picker, aw right.
[Turning to her.^ Say, you're a regular feller —
gettin' tliem records forme,

Emma — [Coquettishly.] Well, if that ain't just
tike a man ! Who told you I got them just for you?
^HBenny — V.ell, didn't youP

^HSvMA — No indeedy ! I only took your advice on
^Hnt to get. I knew you'd know, being growed to a
man of the world now since you was overseas. But I
got 'em because I like them jazz tunes myself. They
put life and ginger in an old lady like me — not like
them slow, old-timey tunes.

Bennt — [Bends over chair — kiddin^y.^ You
~ t old. That's all bunk.

—[Flattered.'] Now, now, Benny!
—You ain't. You're a regular, up-to-date
a only live one in this dead dump. [With

244 DrPPRENT

a grin,'] And If you fall for that jazz stuff, all you
got to do now is learn to dance to it.

Emma — iGiggting.] I will — ^if you'll teach me.

Bekkt — \_Struggling with a guffaw.] Oh, oui!
Sure I win. We'll have a circus, me an' you. Say,
you're sure one of the girls aw right. Aunt Emmer.

Emma — Oh, you needn't think we're oS so behind
the times to home here just because you've been to
France and all over.

Bennt — You ain't,- 111 say, Aunt Enuner.

Emma — ^And how often have I got to tell you not
to caU me Aunt Enuner?

Benny — \^1Vith a grin.] Oh, oui! My foot
slipped. 'Scuse me, Emmer.

Emma — ^Delighted hy his coarse familiarity.]
That's better. Why, you know well enough I aint
your aunt anyway.

Benny — ^I got to get used to the plain Emmer.
They taught me to call you "aunt" when I was a
kid. [Emma looks displeased at this remark ani
Benny hastens to add cajolingly.] And you almost
was my aunt-in-law one time from what I've heard.
\^Winks at h. r ciurmingly.]

Emma — \_Flustered.] That was ages ago.
[Catching herself quickly.] Not so awful long
really, but it's all so dead and gone it seems a long
while.

Benny — [Unthinkingly.] It was before I was
bom, wasn't it? [Seeing her expression he hurri^
jon.] Well, that ain't so darned long. Say, here's

DIFFBENT

245

something I never could make out — how did you ever
come to fall for Uncle Caleb?

£mma — [Bridling — quickly,^ I never did. That's
hU talk, Benny. We was good friends and still are.
I was young and foolish and got engaged to him —
and then discovered I didn't like him that way.
That's all there ever was to it.

Benny — [Resentfvllt/.^ I can't figure how any-
bodj'd ever like him anyway. He's a dam stingy,
ugly old cuss, if you want my dope on him. I can't
see him at all. I've hated him ever since Pa died and
]VIa and me had to go live next door v.ith him.

Emma— You oughtn't to say that. He's kind
at bottom, spite of his rough ways, and he's brought
jou up,

Benny — [^Grumjnly.^ Dragged me up, you mean,
f^With a calculating look at her out of the comers of
his eyes."] He's a tight-wad and I hate folks that're
"tight with their coin. Spend and be a good sport,
"that's my motto. [Flattering.l He'd ought to be
Miore like you that way, Emmer.

Emma — [Pleased- — condescendingly. "l Your Uncle*
vi^aleb's an old man, remember. He's sol^in his ways
•&.i\d believes in being strict with jou — too strict,
I've told liim.

Benny — He's got piles of money hoarded in the
ft^ank but he's too mean even to retire from whalin'
fcimself — goes right on makin' vige after^vige to grab
Ksiore and never spends a nickel less'n he has to. It
^was always like pryin* open a safe for me to separate

f«8

hiiD from a cent. [With extrtvu d'ugiat.\
he's a piker. I hate liim and I a]vajs did !

Emma — [Looking loward the door appniili
tivtiff,] Ssshh!

Bes-xv — What you scared of? He don't get in
from New Bedford till tiie night train and even if
he's got to tlie house by this hell be busy as a bird
dog for an hour getting himself dolled up to pay
jDU a call.

Emma — [Perfvnctorilp.^ I hope he's had a goorf
vige and is in good health.

Benny — [I^oughli/.^ You needn't worry. He's
too mean ever to get real sick. Gosh, I wish Pa'J
lived — or Uncle .lack. They wasn't like him. I ts-
only a kid when they got drowned, but I remember
enough about 'em to know they was good sports.
Wasn't they?

Emma — [Rather prit^g.^ They was too sportj
for their own good.

Benny — Don't you hand me that. That don'l
sound like you. You're a sport yourself. [AftP
a patue.^ Say, it's nutty when you come to thini
of it — Uncle Caleb livin' next door all these yean
and comin' to call all the time when he ain't at sea,

Emma — What's funny about that? We've alwav-
been good friends.

Benny — [With a grm.^ It's just as if the olJ
guy was still mashin* you. And I'll bet anythiw
he's as stuck on you as he ever was — the old fool!

Emma — [W^ith a coqtiettith titter.] Land sake^

DEPPTIENT J47

inj, a body'd think you were actually jealoas of
your uncle the way you go on.

Benny — IWiik a vwckwig lav^h.J Jealous! Oh,
oui! Sure I am! Kin you blame me? [Th^n serir
oiultf, with a c<dcidati>ng look at Iter.] No, all
kiddin' aside, I know he'll run me down first second
he sees you. Ma'll tell him aU her tales, and he'll be
sore at mc right off. He's always hated me anyway.
He was glad when I enlisted, 'cause that got him rid
of me. All he was hopin' was that some German'd
get me for keeps. Then when I come back he
wouldn't do nothin' for me so I enlisted again.

Emma — [Chiding — playfuUy.'] Now, Benny !
Didn't you tell me you enlisted again 'cause you were
sick o' this small place and wanted to be out where
there was more fun?

Benny— Well, o' course it was that, too. But I
could have a swell time even on this dump if he'd
loosen up and give me some kale. [Agam with the
^eicidating look at her.^ Why, look here, right now
tihere's a buddy of mine wants me to meet him in
Soston and he'll show mc a good time, and if I had
B hundred dollars

Emma — A hundred dollars t That's an awful pile
to spend, Benny.

Bennt — [Disgustedljf.'l Now you're talkin' tight
tike him.

Emma — [Haatili/.] Oh, no, Benny. You know
1 that. What was you sayin' — if you had a
1 dollars ?

Benny — That ain't sucli a much these days witi
everything gone up so. If I went to Boston
have to get dolled up and everytliing. And
buddy of mine is a sport and a spender. Easy c<
easy go is his motto. His folks ain't tight wads like
mine. And I couldn't show myself up as a cheap
skate by travellin* 'round with him without a nicki
in my jeans and just spongin' on him. [irif/i fir
calcvlatmg glance to see tchat ejfect his wordi d"
having — pretending to lUsvmi the subject.^ Bui
what's the good of talkin'? I got a swell chance
tellin' that to Uncle Caleb. He'd give me one loot
and then put a double padlock on his roll. But it
ain't fair just the same. Here I'm sweatin' blood
£n the army after riskin' my life in France and
when I get a leave to home, everyone treats me lik«
a wet dog,

Emma — [Softly.'l Do you mean me, too, Bencvi

Benny^ — No, not you. You're difi^rent from tb*
rest. You're regular — and you ain't any of im
real folks either, and ain't got any reason.

Emma — [Coquet tithlyj] Oh, yes, I have a reason.
I like you very, very much, Benny — better than nnt
one in the town — especially since you've been 'o
home these last few times and come to call so often
and I feel I've growed to know you. When you fintj
came back from France I never would have re(
nized you as Harriet's Benny, you was so big
strong and handsome.

Benny — [(7flcom/orf«Wy.] Aw, you're kit

DIFPRENT 249

But you can tell how good I think you are from me
bein' over here so mucli — so you know I ain't lyin'.
[Made more and inore uncomfortable by the ardent
looks Emma is coating at Aim.] Well, guess I'll be
movin' along.

Emma — [Pleadingly.^ Oh, you mustn't go yet!
Just when we're gettin' so friendly!

Benny — Uncle Caleb'll be over soon and I don't
want liim to catch me here — nor nowhere else till he
gets calmed down after hearin' Ma's kicka about me.
So I guess 1 better beat it up street.

Emma — He won't come for a long time yet. I
know when to cspoct him, [Pleading ardently and
kittenishly.^ Do set down a spell, Benny! Land
sakes, I hardly get a sight of you before you want
to run away again. I'll begin to think you're only
pretending to like me.

Benny — [Seeing his calculations deinand i(.] Aw
right— jest for a second. \_He looks about him.,
seeking a neutral subject for conversation.^ Gee,
you've had tliis old place fixed up swell since I was
to home last,

Emma — [CoqiiettishlyJ\ Guess who I had it all
done for, mostly?

Benny — For yourself, of course.

Emma — [Shaking her head rougisMy.] No, not
for me, not for me! Not that I don't like it but I'd
never have gone to the trouble and expense for my-
self. [With a sigh.'\ I s'pose poor Ma and Pa
turned over in their graves when I ordered it done.

Dim^USMT

Bemkt — [With a tly grm-l Who d'jou have it
done for, then?

Emma — For you! Yes, for you, Benny-
you'd )iave a nice, up-to-date place to came to wl
you was on vacation from the horrid old army.

Benny — [Kmbarraised.^ Well, it's great a*
right. And it sure looks swell — nothing cheap
about it.

Emma — [Delighted.^ As long as you like it, I'm
satisfied. \Then luddenly, wagging an admonithing
pngcr at him arid Jiiding beneath a joking maimer
an undercurrent of uneatiness.^ I was forgetting I
got a bone to pick with you, young man ! I heard
them sayin' to the store that you'd been up callin'
on that Tilly Small evenin' before last.

Benny — [ With a lady-kHler'a carelessness.'\ A',
I was passin' by and she called me in, that's alL

Emma — [Frowning,^ They said you had tht
piano goin' and was singing and no end of high
jinks.

Benny — Aw, these small town boobs think you'n
raising hell if you're up after eleven.

Emma — [ExcitetRy.^ I ain't blamin' you.
her — she ought to have better sense — at her a]
too, when she's old enough to be your mother.

Brnny — Aw, say, she ain't half as oh
[Catching himsdf.'] Oh, 8he*8 an old fool, you'
riglit there, Emmer.

Emma — [Serrerely.^ And I hope you know

e it .

DIFP'RENT SSI

kind of woman she is and has been since she was a

Bia*NT — [With a wrinA.] I wasn't bom yester-
day. > I got her number long ago. I ain't in my
cradle, get me! I'm in the armjt Oui! [Chuckles.^

Emma — [Fidgetting nervousltf.'] What'd you —
what'd you do when you was there?

Benny — Why, nothin'. I told her to cut the
rou^ work and behave — and a nice time was had
by all. [He grins provokinglj/.^

Emma — [Springs to lier feet nervoudy.l I don't
know what to tliink— when you act so queer about it.

Bennt— [Corrf^ssiy.] Well, don't think nothing
wrong — 'cause there wasn't. Bill Tinker was with
me and wc was both wishm' we had a drink. And
Bill says, "Let's go see Tilly Small. She always
has some buried and if we hand her a line of talk
maybe she'll drag out the old bottle." So we did —
and she did. We kidded her for a couple of drinks.
[He snickers.']

Emma — [Stamding in front of Mm — fidgetting.]
I want you to promise you won't go to see her no
more. If you — if you want liquor now and again
maybe I^ — mayhe I can fix it so's I can get some
to keep here for you.

Benny — [EagerlT/.l Say, that'd be great! Will
you? [She nods. He goes on carelessly/. ] And
sure I'll promise not to see Tilly no more. Gosh,
what do you think I care about her? Or about
any dame in this town, for that matter — 'ceptin*

868 DIFFRENT

YOU. Hiese small town skirts don't hand me nothin'.
[With a grin.'i You forgot I was in France — and
after the dames over there these birds here look
some punk.

Emma — \_Sit8 down — wetting her Ups.l And
what — ^what are those French critters like?

Benny — [ With a wink.'] Oh, boy ! They're some
pippins ! It ain't so much that they're better lookin'
as that they've got a way with 'em; — ^lots of ways.
\_He laughs with a lasciviatu smirk.]

Emma — \_Unconsciotislf/ hitches her chair nearer
his. The turn the cowoersation has taken seems to
have aroused a hectic^ morbid tnttensity in her. She
contvMiaUy wets her Tips and pushes hack her hair
from her flushed face as if it were stifling her,]
What do you mean, Benny? What kind of ways
have they got — them French girls?

Benny — [Smirhmg mysteriously.] Oh, ways of
dressin' and doin' their hair — and lots of ways.

Emma — [Eagerly.] Tell me! Tell me all about
'em. You needn't be scared — ^to talk open with me.
I ain't as strict as I seem — about hearin' things.
Tell me ! I've heard French girls was awful wicked.

Benny — I don't know about wicked, but they're
darned good sports. They'd do anything a guy'd
ask 'em. Oui, tooty sweet! [Laughs fooUshly.]

Emma — And what — ^what'd you ask 'em, for in-
stance?

Benny — [With a wvnk.] Curiosity killed a cat!
Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies.

DIFPRENT 253

Emma — [Wiift queer, stupid insistence.'] But
won't you tell me? Go on!

Benny — Can't be did, Aunt Emmer, can't be
did! [With a siUy laugh.] You're too young. No,
all I'll say is, that to the boys wlio've knocked
around over there the girls in town here are just
rank amatoora. They don't know how to love and
that's a fact. [He gets to hts feet.] And as for
an old bum like Tilly — not me! Well, I guess I'll
hike along

Emma — [Getting up and putting a hand on his
arm — feverishly.] No, don't go. Not yet — not yet.
No, don't go.

Benny — [Stepping awaif with an expression of
repvlaion.^ Why not? What's the matter with you.
Aunt Emmer? You look 'sif you was gettin' sick.
[Before she can reply, Hahbiet's voice is heard caU-
ing.]

Haehiet — Benny ! Benny ! [This acts like a
paH of cold water on Emma who moves away from
Bennt qtiickly.]

Emma — That's Harriet. It's your Ma calling,
Benny.

Beknt — [iTnpatientlT/.l I know. That means
Uncle Caleb has come and she's told him her stories
and it's up to me to go catch hell. [Stopping
Emma as she goes toward the door as if to answer
Hakeiet's haU.] Don't answer, Aunt Emmer. Let
her come over here to look. I want to speak to her
and find out how I stand before he sees me.

BIFWfiM^*'

EjcitA — [DcubtfuUf/.l I don't know as sWll
come. She's been actin' funny to me lately, Har-
riet has, and ehe ain't put her foot in my door the
last month.

Bekny — [At his mothei^i voice it heard muei
•nearer, calling "Brnmy/"] There! Sure she's
comin'.

Emma — l^Flustered.^ Land sakes, 1 can't let 1
sue me this way. I got to run upstairs and tidy my-
self a little. [She itartg for the door at right.]

Benny — [Flatteringly.] Aw, jou look i
Tliem new duds you got looks great.

Emma — [Turning in the doorway — coquet tiihly.]
Oh, them French girls ain't the only ones knows hoi
to fix up. [She flotmcet out. Benny stands looking
after her tcith a derisii'e grin of contempt. Tker
M a sharp hnock on the door in tite rear. Benk
goes to open it, his expression turning surly on
svMen. Hakbiet enters. She wears an apron OTier he
old-fashioned black dress with a brooch at tfie neck
Her hair is gray, fier face thin, lined, and carei
with a fretful, contintMusly irritated expression
Her shoulders stoop, and her figure is flabby i
u^y. She stares at her son xcitk resentful awno^
ance.]

Habbiet — Ain't you got sense enough, you b
lump, to answer mc when I call, and not have t
shouting my lungs out?

Benny — I never heard you callin'.

Habsiet — You're lyin' and you know it. [TAfll

DIPF'RENT J6B

severeli/.} Your uncle's to home. He's waitin' to
talk to yoa.

Benny — ^Let liim wait. [In a tnarling tone.^ I
s'pose you've been givin' him an earful of lies about
mc?

Habeiet — I told him the truth, if that's what you
mean. How you stole the money out of the bureau
drawer

Benny — \^Alarmed but pretending icom.^ Aw,
you don't know it was me. You don't know nothin'
about it.

Habbiet — [Ignoring this.'] And about your dis-
gracin' liim and me with your drunken carryinVon
with that harlot, Tilly Small, night after night.

Benny — Aw, wha'd you know about that?

Habriet — And last but not least, the sneakin'
way you're makin' a silly fool out of poor Emmer
Crosby.

Benny — [With a grm.] You don't notice her
kickin' about it, do you? [Brusquely.] Why don't
you mind your own business. Ma?

Habbiet — [Violently.] It's a shame, that's what
it is ! That I should live to see the day when a son
of mine'd descend so low he'd tease an old woman
to get money out of her, and her alone in the world.
Oh, you're low, you're low all through like your Fa
was — and since you been in the army you got bold
so you ain't even ashamed of your dirtiness no
more!

Benny — [In a snarling whisper.] That's right!

^■p I>XFP*itCMT *

^Pbine it all on me. I s'pose stie ain't got nothin' to
do with it. [H'ifA a wink.\ You ou^t«r see her
perform sometimes. You'd get wise to something
then,

Habriet — Shut up! You've got the same filthy
mind your Pa had. As for Emmer, I don't hold her
responsible. She's been gettin' fli^ity the past two
years. She couldn't help it, livin' alone the wayj
she does, shut up in this house all her life. Yau.
ought to be 'shamed to take advantage of her con-
dition- — but shame ain't in you.

Benht— Aw, give us a rest!

Habhiet — [.JngrH/y.] Your Uncle Caleb'U give
you a rest when he sees you! Him and me's ngreeil
not to give you another single penny if you was to
get down on your knees for it. So there ! You can
git along on your army pay from this out.

Benny — [Worried by the finality in her tone —
placativgl}/-^ Aw, say. Ma, what's eatin' you?
What've I done that's so bad? Gosh, you ougtita
know some of the gang I know in the army. You'll
think I was a saint if you did. [Tn/ing a confiden-
tial tone.] Honest, Ma, this here thing with Aunt
Emmcr ain't my fault. How can I help it if she
goes bugs in her old age and gets nutty about
[With a tly grin — in a vfliisper.^ Gee, Ma, yoi
oughter see her to-day. She's a scream, honest
She's upstairs now gettin' calmed down. She was
gettin' crazy when you're callin* stopped hor.
till she comes down and you git a look! She'll pi

DIFFTRENT SS7

your eye out— all dolled up like a kid of sixteen and
«nough paint on her mush for a Buffalo Bill In-
dian

Harriet — [Staring at him with stem condemnor-
(ton.] You're a worthless loafer, Benny Rogers,
same as your Pa was.

Bekny — [Frustrated trnd furious.^ Aw, gVaO
with that bunk! [He turns away from, her.l

Harriet — And I'm goin' to tell Emma about you
and try to put some sense back into her head.

Benny- — Go ahead. You'U get fat runnin' me
down to her!

Harsiet^ — And if my word don't have no influ-
ence, I'll tell your Uncle Caleb everything, and get
him to talk to her. She'll mind him.

Benny — [Vef-antly.^ You just try it, that's all!

Hasrlet — I've been scared to do morc'n hint
about it to him. I'm hopin' any day Emma'U come
oat of this foolishness, and he'll never know.

Benny — ^Aw !

Harriet — If shame was in you, you'd remember
your Uncle Caleb's been in love with Emma all his
life and waited for her year after year hopin' in
the end she'd change her mind and marry him. And
she will, too, I believe, if she comes out of this fit
in her sane mind — which she won't if you keep fus-
sin' with her.

Bknny — [With revengeful trki/mph.^ She'll never

Iirry the old cuss — I'll fix that!
Harriet — Now you're showin' yourself up for

IRS

MWRMIT

what Toil are! And I kin sec it's come to the p'int
where I got to tell j-our Uncle Caleb cvcrythin' no
matter how it breaks him up. I got to do it foi
Kmmcr's sake as well as his'o. We got to get her
cured of your bad influence once and for all. lih
the only hope for the two of 'em.

Benny — You just try it!

Harbiet — And as for jou, you get back to the
army where you b^ong! And don't never eipcct
another cent from me or Caleb 'cause you won't get
it ! And don't never come to see us again till you've
got rid of the meanness and filth that's the Rogers
part of you and found the honesty and decency
that's the Williams part — If you got any of me in
you at all, which I begin to doubt. [Goes to tlu
door in rear.] And now I'm goln' back to Caleb —
and you better not let him find you here when Be
comes less'n you want a good liidin' for once in your
life, [She goes oaf.]

Benny — [Stammering between fear omZ rag^—
shouting after her.^ G'wan! Tellium! What the
hell do I care.'' I'll fix him! I'll spill the beans
for both of you, if you try to gum me! [He standi
in the middle of the room hesitating whether to run
away or stay, concentrating his thoftghts on finding
some way to make good his bluff. Suddenly his foci
lights up with a cruel grin and he mutters to hims^j
with savage satisfaction,'] By God, that's it! Fll
bet I kin work it, too ! By God, that'll fix 'em ! [Bt

^69

chuckles and goes qvicHy to the door on right ajid
calls up to the floor above.^ Eramer! Emmer!

Emma — [Her voice faintly heard answervng.^
Yes, Benny, I'm conaing.

Benny — [He calls qvickly,^ Come down! Come
down quick! [He comes back to the center of the
room, where he stands waiting, plartmng his course
of action.^

Emma— [Appears in the doorwaif. Her face u
profusely powdered — tuith neraous excitement.^
Benny! What's the matter? You sounded so — why
wherc's your Ma?

Benny — Gone. Gone back to home.

Emma — [Offendedly.^ Without waiting to see
me? Why, I only sat down far a minute to give you
a chance to talk to her. I was coming right down.
Didn't she want to see me? Whatever's got into
Harriet lately?

Benny — She's mad as thunder at you 'cause I
come oier here so much 'stead of stayin' to home
with her.

Emma— [Pleased.Ji Oh, is that why? Well, if
she ain't peculiar! [She sits m a rocker by the
table.^

Benny — [With a great pretence of grief, taking
one of her hands in fti*.] Say, Emmcr — what I
called you down for was — I want to say good-bye
and thank you for all you've done

Emma — [F right enedly.^ Good-bye? How you
say that! What ?

Bbnkt — Good-bye for good this tine.

EniA — For good?

Benny — Yep. I've got to beat it. I ain't i
home here no mere. Mia and Uncle Caleb, they've
chucked me out.

Emma — Good gracious, what're you saying?

Benny — That's what Ma come over to tell me —
tliat Uncle Caleb'd said I'd never get another cent
from him, alive or after he's dead, and she said for
me to git back to the army and never to come home
Again.

Emma — {^Gaspmg.^ She was only joking. She
— they couldn't mean it,

Benny — If you'd heard her you wouldn't think
she was joking.

Emma — [As he makes a movement as if to go
away.] Benny! You can't go! Go, and me never
see you again, maybe! You can't! I won't have it'

Benny — I got to, Emmer, What else is there for
me to do when they've throwed me out ? I don't givi
a damn about leaving them — but I hate to leave
you and never see you again.

Emua — [Excitedly — grabbing Ms arm.l You
can't! I won't let you go!

Benny — I .lon't want to — but what can I do?

Emma — Yo-i can stay here with me.

Benny — [''m eyes gleaming with satiafaciicii,]
No, I couldn . You know this dump of a town, '
Folks would hi sayin' all sorts of had things in d"
time. I don't care for myself. They're all do"n

DIFFRENT

261

.nyway because I'm dilf rent from small-town
(Obs like them and they hate me for it.
Emma- — Yes, you are diff'rent. And I'll show 'em
1 diifrent, too. You can stay with me — and let
1 gossip all they've a mind to !

Bennt^ — No, it wouldn't be actin' square with

I got to go. And I'll try to save up ray pay

[ send you back what I've borrowed now and

Emma — [More and ware wrought !ip,] I won't
hear of no such thing. Oh, I can't understand your
Ma and your Uncle Caleb bein' so cruel!

Benny — Folks have been lyin' to her about me,
like I told you, and she's told him. He's only too
glad to believe it, too, long as it's bad.

Emma^ — I can talk to your Uncle Caleb. He's al-
ways minded me more'n her.

Benny — [Hastily.] Don't do that, for God's
sake ! You'd only make it worse and get yourself
in Dutch with him, too !

Emma — [Bemlderedlff.^ But — ^I— don't see '

Benny— [flow.^%.] Well, he's still stuck, on
you, ain't he?

EiTMA — [With a flash of coquetry.^ iNow, Benny !

Benny — I ain't kiddin'. This is dead serious.
He's stuck on you and you know it.

Emma — [Coyly.] I haven't given hLa the slight-
est reason to hope in thirty years.

Benny- — Well, he hopes just the same. Sure he
does! Why Ma said when she was here just now

868 DIFPRENT

she'd bet you and him'd be married some day yet.

Emma — ^No such thing! Why, she must be crazy!

Benxt — Oh, she ain't so crazy. Ain't he spent
every dum evenin' of the time he's to home between
trips over here with you — ^for the last thirty years?

Emma — ^When I broke my engagement I said I
wanted to stay friends like we'd been before, and we
always have; but every time he'd even hint at bein'
engaged again I'd always tell him we was friends
only and he'd better leave it be that way. There's
never been nothing else between us. \^With a coy
smile. "ji And besides, Benny, you know how little
time he's had to home between viges.

Benny — I kin remember the old cuss marchin'
over here every evenin' he was to home since I was a
kid.

Emma — \_With a titter of ddight."] D'you know,
Benny, I do actually believe you're jealous!

Benny — \_Loudltf — to lend conviction.'] Sure I'm
jealous! But that ain't the point just now. The
point 18 he* 8 jealous of me — and you can see what
a swell chance you've got of talkin' him over now,
can't you ! You'd on'y make him madder.

Emma — [^Embarrassedly.] He's getting foolish.
What cause has he got

Benny — When Ma tells him the lies about us — "

Emma — {Excitedly.'] What lies?

Benny — I ain't goin' to repeat 'em to you bat
you kin guess, can't you, me being so much over
here?

DIFF'RENT

E^MA — [Springing to her feet — shocked but
pleased,^ Oh!

Benny — ITummg away from her.] And now
I'm going to blow. I'll stay at Bill Grainger's to-
night and get the morning train.

Emma — [Grabbwg his arm.^ No such thing!
Youll stay right here !

Benny— I can't— Emmer, If you was really my
aunt, things'd be diiPrent and I'd tell 'em all to go
to hell.

Emma — ^^SimliTig at him coquettishly.'] But I'm
glad I ain't your aunt.

Benny — Well, I mean if you was related to rae
in some way. [At strme noige he hears from without,
he starts frigktenedly.] Gosh, that sounded like
our front door slamming. It's him and he's coming
over. I got to beat it out the back way. [He starts
for the door on the rtght.^

Emma — [Clinging to himi.^ Benny! Don't go!
Vou musn't go !

Benny — [Itispired by alarm and desire for re-
venge suddenly blurts ou.t.^ Say, let's me 'n' you git
married, Emmer — tomorrow, eli? Then I kin stay!
That^l stop 'em, damn 'em, and make 'em leave me
alone.

Emma — [Dazed with joy.] Married? You V
me? Oh, Benny, I'm too old. [S}ie hides her head
on his shoulder. '\

Benny — [Hurriedly, tinth one anxious eye on ike
itoor.] No, you ain't! Honest, you ain't! You're

264 DIFPRENT

the best guy in this town! \_ShaJeing her in Jus
anxiety. 1 Say yes, Emmer! Say you will — ^first
thing tomorrow.

Eatma — [Choking with emotion.^ Yes — ^I will —
if I'm not too old for you.

Benny — [Jtibilantlff.'] Tell him. Then he'll see
where he gets off ! Listen ! I'm goin' to beat it to
the kitchen and wait. You come tell me when he's
gone. [A knock comes at the door. He whispers,]
That's him. I'm goin'.

Emma — [Embracing him fiercdy.'] Oh, Benny!
[She kisses him on the lips. He chicks cnoay from
her and disappears off right. The knock is re- I
peated. Emma dabs tremblingly at her cheeks wiik
a handkerchief. Her force is beaming tenth happiness
and looks indescribably sUly. She trips lightly to
the door and opens it — forcing a lights careless
tone.l Oh, it's you, Caleb. Come right in and set.
I was kind of expecting you. Benn^ — ^I'd heard
you was due to home tonight. [He comes in and
shakes the hand she holds out to him in a limp,
vague, absent-minded manner. In appearance, he
has changed but little in the thirty years save that
his hair is now nearly white and his face more
deeply lined and wrinkled. His body is still erect,
strong and vigorous. He wears dark clothes, much
the same as he was dressed in Act One.'\

Caleb — [Mechanically.^ Hello, Emmer. [Once
inside the door, he stands staring about the roo%
frowrmtg. The garish strangeness of eoerything

DIFF'RENT 265

evidently repds and puzsles htm. His face wears its
set expression of an emotionless mask but his eyes
cannot conceal an inward struggle, a baffled and
painful attempt to compreJiend, a wounded look of
beuMdered hiirt.'\

Emma — [Blithely indifferent to this — pleas-
antly.^ Are jou looking at the changes I've made?
You ain't seen this room since, have jou? Of course
not. What ami thinking of ? They only got through
with the work two weeks ago. Well, what d' you
think of it?

Caleb- — [FrowmTig — hesitatingly,^ Why — ^it's —
all right, I reckon.

Emma- — It was so gloomy and old-timey before,
I just couldn't bear it. Now it's light and airy and
young-looking, don't you think? [With a sigh.^ I
suppose Pa and Ma turned over in their graves.

Caleb— [Gri7n/i/.] I reckon they did, too.

Emma — ^Why, you don't mean to tell me you don't
like it neither, Caleb? [TJien as he doesn't reply, —
resentfully.^ Well, you always was a sot, old-
fashioned critter, Caleb Williams, same as they was.
[She plumps herself into a rocker by the table—
fJ:cn, noticing the lost way in which he is looking
rhout Aim.] Gracious sakes, why don't you set,
Caleb? You give me the fidgets standing that way!
You ain't a stranger that's got to be in\Hted, are
you? [Then suddenly realizing the cause of his dis-
comfifure, she smiles pityingly, not jeithout a trace
of malice.'l Are you looking for your old chair

266 DIFFRENT

you used to set in? Is that it? Well, I had it put
up in the attic. It didn't fit in with them new things.

Caleb — [DtiZZ^.] No, I s'pose it wouldn't.

Emma — [Indicating a chair next to hers.'\ Do
set down and make yourself to home. [^He does so
gingerly. After a pause she asks perfwnctorUy,]
Did you have good luck this voyage?

Caleb — \_Again duUt/.'\ Oh, purty fair. [He
begins to look at her as if he were seeing her for
the first time^ noting every detail with a numb,
stunned astonishment,^

Emma — ^You're looking as well as ever.

Caleb — [DuUy,^ Oh, I ain't got nothin' to com-
plain of.

Emma — ^You're the same as me, I reckon. [Hap-
pily*^ Why I seem to get feelin' younger and more
chipper every day, I declare I do. [She becomes wnr
comfortably aware of his examination — nervously.]
Land sakes, what you starin' at so?

Caleb — [Brusquely blurting out his disap-
proval.'] You've changed, Emmer — changed so I
wouldn't know you, hardly.

Emma — [Resentfully.] Well, I hope you think
it's for the best.

Caleb — [Evasivdy.] I ain't enough used to it
yet — ^to telL

Emma — [Offended.] I ain't old-timey and old-
maidy like I was, I guess that's what you mean.
Well, I just got tired of mopin' alone in this house,
waiting for death, to take me and not enjoyin' any-

DIFF'RENT 267

thing. I was gettin' old before my time. And all
*t once, I saw what was happenin' and I made up
uxy mind I was going to get some fun out of what
Pa'd left me while I was still in the prime of life,
as you might say.

Cai.eb — [Severely/. 'j Be that paint and powder
you got on your face, Emmer."'

£)kima — [Embarrassed by this direct qurstioji.]
Why, yes — I got a little mite — it's awful good for
your complexion, they say — and in the cities now all
the women wears it.

Caleb — [Sternly.^ The kind of women I've seed

in cities wearin' it [He cJiecks himself amd asks

abruptly/,] Wam't your hair tumin' gray last time
I was to home?

Emma — [Flustered.^ Yea — yea — so it was — but
then it started to come in again black as black all
of a sudden.

Caleb — [Glancing at Tier shoes, stockings, and
dress.^ You're got up in them things like a young
girl goin' to a dance.

Emma^ — [Forcing a defi-atit laugk.^ Maybe I will
go soon's I learn — and Benny's goin' to teach me.

Caleb — [Keeping his rage in control — heavilif,'\
Benny

Emma — [Suddenly hunting into hysterical
tears.^ And I think it's real mean of you, Caleb—
naatj mean to come here on your first night to home
— an d — make — fun — of —my — clothes — and eve r y-
tliing. [She hides Iter face in her hands and sobs.^

£68

DIFFRENT

Calkb — [Overcome by remorie — forgetting h\
rage inttantly — gett np and pati her on the ahovl-
Str — viih rough tetidemets.] Tliar. thar. Eminer'.
Don't cry, now! I didn't mean nothin'. Don't pay
no ■'tention to what I said. I'm a durned old fool I
What the hc-U do I know o* women's fixin's any-
how? And I reckon I be old-fashioned and 6ot in
my ideas.

Emma — [Reaimred — prenmg one of hit handi
gratefully.] It hurts — ^hearing you say — ^me 'n'
you such old friends and

Caleb — Forgit it, Emmer. I won't say no more
about it. [She dries her eyes and regains her com-
posure. He goes back to his seat, his face greathj
softened, looking at her xeith the bliTui eyes of love.
There is a pause. Finally, he ventures in a genth
tone.] D'jou know what time this be, Emmer?

Emma — [Puzzled.] I don't know exactly, bu;
there's a clock in the next room.

Caleb — [Quickly.] Hell, I don't mean that kiinJ
o* time. 1 mean — it was thirty years ago this
■pring.

Emma — [HastS.y.] Land sakes, don't let's talt
of that. It only gets me thinking how old I am.

Caleb — [VKiffc an affectionate smUe.] We both
got to realize now and then that we're gettin' old.

Emma — [Bridling.] That's all right for you fc
say. You're twelve years older 'n me, don't fo
Caleb.

DIFF'RENT

Caleb — [Siniling.^ Waal, even that don't make
ou out no spring chicken, Eramer.

Emma — {Stiffiy.'] A body's as old as they feels
-and I feel right young.

Caleb — Waal, so do I as far as health goes. I'm
B able and sound as ever. [After a pause.'] But,
iat I meant was, d'you remember what happened
ilirty years back.

Emma — I suppose I do.

Caleb — D'you remember what I said that day?

Emma — [Primly.] You said a lot that it's better
J forget, if you ask me.

Caleb — I don't mean — that part of it. I mean

rhen I was sayin' good-bye, I said [He gasps

-then blurts it out.'] I said I'd wait thirty years
-if need be. [After a pause.] I know you told
le time and again not to go back to that. On'y —

was thinkin' all this last vige — that maybe — now
1 the thirty years are past — I was tliinkin* that

jaybe [He looks at her humbly, imploring

ome encouragement. She stares straight before
, her mouth set ihiidy. He sighs forlornly and
himders onJ] Thirty jears^that's a hell of a
sng time to wait, Emmer — makin' vige after vige
Iways alone — and feclin' even more alone in between
mes when I was to home livin' right next door to
ou and callin' on you every evenin'. [A pause.]
re made money enough, I know — but what the hell
wd's that to me — long as you're out of it? [A
ntie,] Seems to me, Emmer, thirty o* the best

S70 bui'iniSi^^^^^^

ycara of a man's life ought to be proof enough to yoa
to make you forget — that one slip o' mine.

EuMA — [Rouaitig hertelf — forcing a cardeti
tone.'i Land sakcs, I forgot all about that long
ago. And here you go remindin' me of it !

Caleb — [Doggedli/.l You ain't answered what I
was drivin* at, Emmcr. \_A pause; then, ag if tad-
daily afraid of ickat her anrxer mil be, hg brtakk
out quickly.} And I don't want you to
right now, neither. I want jou to take time to
think it all over.

Emma — [Feebly Anisttv.] All right, Caleb, 11
think it over.

Calkb — [After a •paute.^ Somehow — seemi I
me 'sif — you might really need me now. You new
did before.

Emma — [Sutpiciouily.'\ Why should I need j
now any more'n any other time.

Caleb — [Embarratsedly.'\ Oh, I juat fed t!
way.

Emma — It ain't count o' nothin' Harriet's I
tellin' you, is it? [Stiffly.'] Her 'n' me ain't aui
good friends no more, if you must know.

Caleb — [FroxDTmig.] Her 'n' me nearly had
fight right before I came over here. [Emma atarti,
Harriet lets her tongue run away with her and saj
dumb fool things she don't really mean. I didn
pay much 'tention to what she was sayin' — but i
riled me jest the same. She won't repeat sue
foolishness after the piece o' my mind I gave her.

DQT'RENT

871

MMA — What did she say?

Ialeb — Oh, nothin' worth tellin', [A pati^e.}
b neither you nor me ought to get mad at Har-
; serious. We'd ouglit, by all rights, to make
'Allowances for her. You know's well as me what a
hard time she's had. Bein' married to Alf Rogers
for five years'd pizin' any woman's life.

plMUA — No, he wasn't much good, there's no de-

Eai^eb — ^And now there's Benny drivin' her crazy.

Emma — ^Instantly defensive.} Benny's all right!
I&LEB — [Staring at her skarpli/ — -after a paiise.^
f that's jest it. He ain't all right, Eramer.

Emma — He is, too ! He'a as good as gold !

Caleb — [FroKwn^ — with a trace of resentment.^
You kin say so, Emmer, but the facts won't bear
yoii out.

Emma— [Ej7cif(r%.] What facts, Caleb Wil-
liams P If you mean the nasty lies the folks in thi»
town are mean enough to gossip about him, I don't
believe any of 'cm. I ain't such a fool.

Caleb — ^Bitterly.] Then you've changed, Em-
mer. You didn't stop about believin' the fool stories
ritey gossiped about me that time.
^BBmua — You owned up yourself that was true!
^RJaleb— And Bcnny'd own up if he was half the
man I was! [Angrili/.] But he ain't a man noways.
He's a mean skunk from truck to keelson!

Emma — [Sprijiging to her feet."] Oh!

Caleb — IVehrmenfly.] I ain't judged him by

9m DIFPRENT

what folks have told me. But I've watched him grow
np from a boy and every time I've come to home
IVe seed he was gittin' more 'n' more like his Pa —
and yon know what a low dog Alf Rogers turned
out to be, and what a hell he made for Harriet.
Waal, I'm sajrin' this boy Benny is just Alf all
over again — on'y worse !

Emma — Oh !

Caleb — ^They ain't no Williams' blood left in
Benny. He's a mongrel Rogers! [Trying to calm
himself a little (vnd he cowoincvng.'\ Listen, Emmer.
You don't suppose I'd be sayin' it, do you, if it
wasn't so? Ain't he Harriet's boy? Ain't I brought
him up in my own house since he was knee-high?
Don't you know I got some feelin's 'bout it and I
wouldn't hold nothing agen him less'n I knowed it
was true?

Emma — [Harshly. 1 Yes, you would! You're
only too anxious to believe all the bad you can
about him. You've always hated him, he says — ^and
I can see it's so.

Caleb — [RougMyJ] You know damned well it
ain't, you mean! Ain't I talked him over with you
and asked your advice about him whenever I come
to home? Ain't I always aimed to do all I could to
help him git on right? You know damned well I
never hated him! It's him that's always hated me!
[VengefullyJ^ But I'm begining to hate him now
— and I've good cause for it !

Emma — [F right enedly.l What cause?

Causb — [Ignoring her question.] I seed what
he was comin' to years back. Then I thought when
the war come, and he was drafted into it, that the
army and strict discipline 'd maybe make a man o'
him. But it ain't! It's made him worse! It's killed
whatever mite of decency was left in him. And I
reckon now that if you put a coward in one of them
there uniforms, he thinks it gives him the privilege
to be a bully! Put a sneak in one and it gives him
the courage to be a thief! That's why when the
war was over Benny enlisted again 'stead o' goin'
whalin' with me. He thinks he's found a good shield
to cover up his natural-born laziness — and crooked-

Emma — [Outraged.] You can talk that way
about him that went way-over to France to shed his
blood for you and me!

Caleb — I don't need no one to do my fightin' for
me — against German or devil. And you know
dumed well he was only in the Quartermaster's De-
partment unloadin' and truckin' groceries, as safe
from a gun as you and me be this minute. [TTitA
heavy scorn.] If he shed any blood, he must have
got a nose bleed.

Emma — Oh, you do hate him, I can see it! And
you're just as mean as mean, Caleb Williams! All
you've said is a wicked lie and you've got no
cause

Caleb — I ain't, eh? I got damned good cause,
I tell yc! I ain't minded his meanness to me. I

K^ cf«B gbe ms Hadi beed to Ini ■■>*"■*<■■. to Har-
riet MM Fd ooglit to haire, Brnjlie. Bat wfaoi he
ftarts IB Ilk tir atin* thiercrj vitli too, Eonffy
I pot mj foot down on Ibn for good and all !

EioiA— What soeakix:' thkrerr with me? Hov
danr TOO saj ssKh things?

Calzm — ^I got pnxif iVs tme. Whj, he*« eia
b^^gg^ ^ <^^^ tovn about ban' aUe to borrov
all the moner from Toa he'd a mind to — boastin'
of what an old fool be was makin' of too, with too
fixin' op jour boose all new to git him to comin'
oTcr.

ExMA — [Scadei — bZozaag.] Ifs a lie ! He nefer
said it! You're makin' it all up — ^caose yon'

'cause you're

Calkb — ^'Cause Fm what, Emmer?

Emma — [Flinging it at him like a socage iamfU.]
'Cause you're jealous of him, that's what! Any
fool can see that!

Caleb — [Getting to his feet and facing her^
slowly. '\ Jealous? Of Benny? How — I don't see
your meanin' rightly.

Emma — [With triumphant maliceJ\ Yes, you do!
Don't pretend you don't! You're jealous 'cause yoo
know I care a lot about him.

Caleb — [SlowlyJl Why would I be jealous
'coimt o' that? What kind o' man d'you take me
for? Don't I know you must care for him when
you've been a'most as much a mother to him for
years as Harriet was?

DIFF'RENT 275

LSmua — [Wownded to the quick — fttrioiisly.^ No
Bch thing! You're a mean liar! I ain't never
played a mother to him. He's never looked at me
that way — never ! And I don't care for him that
way at all. Just because I'm a mite older 'n him —
can't them things happen just as well as any other —
what d'you suppose — can't I care for him same
as any woman cares for a man? And I do ! I care
moro'n I ever did for you ! And that's why you're
lying about him! You're jealous of that!

Caleb — [Staring at her with stunned eyes — in a
hoarse whisper.^ Emmer! Ye don't know what
you're sayin', do ye?

Emma — I do too!

Caleb — Harriet said you'd been actin' out o'
your right senses.

Emma — Harriet's mad because she knows Benny

loves me better 'n her. And he does love me! He

don't mind ray bein' older. He's said so! And I

love him, too!

!J Caleb — [Stepping back from her in horror.^

^ Emmer!

Emma— -And he's asked me to marry him to-
morrow. And I'm goinj; to! Then you can all lie
all you've a mind to !

Caleb — You're — going to — marry Benny?

Emma — First thing tomorrow. And since you've
throwed him out of his house in your mad jealous-
less, I've told him he can stay here with me to-
light. And he's going to!

«76 DIFPRENT

Caleb — [JKt fists clenching — tensdy.l Where—
where is the skunk now?

Emma — [HasiUtf.'] Oh, he ain't here. He's gone
up street.

Caleb — [Starting for the door m rear.l Tm
goin' to find the skunk.

Emma — [^Seizing his arms — frightenedly.'\ What
're you going to do?

Caleb — [Between his clenched teeth.'] I don't

know, Emmer — I don't know On'y he ain't

goin* to marry you, by God !

Emma — Caleb! [She tries to throw her arms
about him to stop his going. He pushes her flmdg
but gently aside. She shrieks.] Caleb! [She
flings herself on her knees and wraps her arms arou/nd
his legs in supplicating terror.] Caleb! You aint
going to kill him, Caleb? You ain't going to hurt
him, be you? Say you ain't! Tell me you won't
hurt him! [As she thinks she sees a relenting soft*
ness come into his face as he looks down at her!\
Oh, Caleb, you used to say you loved me! Don't
hurt him then, Caleb, — ^for my sake! I love hinij
Caleb! Don't hurt him — ^just because you think Fm
an old woman ain't no reason — and I won't marry
you, Caleb. I won't — ^not even if you have waited
thirty years. I don't love you. I love him! And
I'm going to marry him — tomorrow. So you wont
hurt him, will you, Caleb — ^not when I ask you on my
knees !

Caleb — [Breaking away from her with a shuddif

of dUgutt.1 No, I won't touch him. If I was
wan tin' to git even with ye, I wouldn't dirty my
hands on him. I'd let you marry the skunk and set
and watch what happened — or else I'd offer him
money not to raarry ye — more money than the little
mite you kin bring him — and let ye see how quick
he'd turn his back on ye!

Emma — [Getting to her feet — frenxiedly.'] It's m
lie ! He never would !

Caleb — [Unheeding- — with a sudden ominoui
caZm.] But I ain't goin' to do neither. You ain't
worth it — and he ain't — and no one ain't, nor noth-
in'. Folks be all crazy and rotten to the core and
I'm done with the whole kit and caboodle of 'cm. I
kin only see one course out for me and I'm goin'
to take it. "A dead whale or a stove boat?" we says
in whalin* — and my boat is stove! [He stridet away
from her, ttopt, and turtit back — savagely.'\ Thirty
o' the best years of my life flung for a yeller dog like
him to feed on. God! You used to say you was
diffrent from the rest o' folks. By God, if you are,
it's just you're a mite madder'n they be! By God,
that's all! [He ffoet, letting the door tlam to behind
him.^

Emua — [In a pitiful «'himper,'\ Caleb! [She
nnki into a chair btf the table sobbing hystericaUy.
Bermy tneakt through the door on right, hestitatei
for a tchUe, afraid that hit uncle may he coining
hack.^

«rs

DlFF'HEKT

Bennt — [Finally, in a thrill whitpsr.']
Emnier!

EuMA — [Raiting h^ face to look at him f
tecond.] Oh, Benny! [She faUt to weeping dg

Benny — Say, you don't think he's liable to
back, do youF

Emma — No — he'll — never — come back here
more. [Soht bitterlt/.^

Bessy — [Hit courage reluming, comes for
into the room.] Say, he's way up in the air,
he? [With a grin-^ Say, that was some ballin
he give you !

Emma — You — you heard what he said?

Bensv — Sure thing. When you got to sho
I sneaked out o' the kitchen into there to hear
was goin* on. [ITif/t a complacsTU gritt,^
you certainly stood up for rae all right. You
good old scout at that, d'you know it?

Emma — [Raiting her absurd, hesiHeared fi
lui, at if expecting him to hiat Aer.] Ob, Bi
I'm giving up everytliing I've held dear all m;
for your sake,

Benny — [Turning awaj/ from her mth a tot
aversion,^ Well, what about it? Ain't I wort
Ain't I worth a million played-out old cranka
him? [She ttares at him bewUderedly. He tal
handful of almonds from his pocket and bi
cracking and eating them, throwing the tkeUi oi
floor vith an impudent carelessnets.'\ Hope

DIFF'RENT «79

don't mind my havio' a feed? I found them out in
the kitchen and helped myself.

£mma — [Pitifully,^ You're welcome to anything
that's here, Benny.

Benky — [Imolentltf.^ Sure, I know you're a
good scout. Don't rub it in. \^After a pause —
boastfully.^ Where did you get that stuff about
askin' him not to hurt me? He'd have a swell
chance ! There's a lot of hard guys in the array
have tried to get funny with me till I put one over
on *cm. I'd like to see him start something! I could
lick him with my hands handcuffed,

'EyiviK— -[Revolted.^ Oh !

Benny— [ffesCTtf/wZ/j/.] Think I'm bluffin'? Ill
show you sometime. [He swaggers about the room
— finalli/ stopping beside her. With a cu/tming leeT.'\
Say, I been thinkin' it over and I guess I'll call his
bluff.

Emma — [Confiisedly.'\ What — do you mean?

Benny — I mean what he said just before he beat
it — that he could get me not to marry you if he
offered me more coin than you got. [Very inter-
estedly.'] Say, d'you s'pose the old miser really
was serious about that?

Emma — [Dazedly — as if she could not realize the
significance of his words.] I — ^I — don't know,
Benny.

Benny — [Swaggering dbottt again."] If I WM
only sure he wasn't stallin' ! If I could get the old
CUB3 to shell out that way ! [With a tickled

«80 DIFFKEFT V

chuckle.] Goth. UiatM be the real stunt aw ri^H
Air right. Oui, oui! Maybe he wasn't kid<]iii*^|
that, the old simp! It's worth takm* a stab .H
damnod if it ain*t. I ain't got nothin' to lose. ^M

F.MsiA — {Frightmfdly.] What — what're «
tallcin* about, Dennj'P ^M

Benny — Say, I think I'll go over and talk to M^
after a while. You can go over first to make sure he
ain't there. I'll get her to put it up to him straight.
If he's willin* to dig in his jeans for some real coin—
rc.ll dough, this time!- — I'll agree to beat it and not
spill the beans for him with you. \^Threateninglg.]
And if he's too tight, I'll go right through with whst
I said I would, if only to spite him! That's me!

Emma — You mean — if he's willing to bribe you
with money, you won't marry me tomorrow?

Benny — Sure! If hell put up enough money. 1
won't stand for no pikin'.

Kmma — [iVhimpcring.^ Oh, Benny, you're only
jokin', ain't you? You can't — you can't mean it!

Besnv — [With carelest effrontery.] Why can't
I? Sure I mean it!

Emma — [Hiding her face in her hands — with n |
tortured moan.] Oh, Benny!

Benny^ — [Disgustedli/.^ Aw, don't go ballin
[After a pause—a bit embarraasedly.] Aw, sm
what d'you think, anyway? What're you takin' :
ao damned serious for — me askin' you to marry n
I mean? I was on'y sort of kiddin' anyway — just -
you'd tell him and get his goat right. [As she loo'i'

DIFFRENT 881

up at him with agonized despair. With a trace of
something like pity showing irt his tone.^ Say, hon-
est, Aunt Emmer, you didn't believe — you didn't
think I was really stuck on you, did youP Ah, say,
how could I? Have a heart! Why you're as old as
Ma is, ain't you. Aunt Emmer? [He adds mthless-
ly.] And I'll say you look it, too !

Emma— [Coir^nn^f — -as if he had struck her.^
Oh! Oh!

Benny-^[^ hit irritated.] What's the use of
blubberin', for God's sake? Can't you take it like a
sport? Hell, I ain't lookin' to marry no one, if I can
help it. What do I want a wife for? There's too
many others. [After a pause — as she still sobs —
calctdatmgly.'] Aw, come on, be a sport— and say,
listen, if he ain't willin' to come across, I'll marry you
all right, honest I will, [More and more calculat-
ingly.] Sure! If they mean that stuff about kickin'
me out of home — sure I'll stay here with you ! I'll
do anything you want. If you want me to marry
you, all you've got to do is say so — anytime ! Only
not tomorrow, we'd better wait and see

Emma — [Hysterically.] Oh, go away I Go away!

Benny — [Looking down at her disgustedly.] Aw,
come up for air, can't you? [He slaps her on the
hack.] Buck up! Be a pal! Tell me what your
dope is. This thing's got me so balled up I don't
know how I stand. [Wiift sudden fury.] Damn
his hide ! I bet he'll go and leave all he's got to some
lousey orphan asylum now.

288 DIFFRENT

Emma — Oh, go away! Go away!

Benny — [^Viciously.^ So you're givin' me the
gate, too, eh? I'd like to see you try it ! You asked
me to stay and I'll stick. It's all your fool fault
that's got me in wrong. And now you want to shake
me! This is what I get for foolin' around with an
old hen like you that oughta been planted in the
cemetery long ago! Faintin' your old mush and
dressin' like a kid! Christ A'mighty!

Emma — [/n a cry of despair.'\ Don't ! Stop ! Go
away.

Benny — [Sudderdy alert — sJiarply.'] Sh ! I hear
someone coming. [STiakmg herJ\ Stop — now,
Enuner ! Danm it, you gotta go to the door. Maybe
it's him. [He scarries into the room on right. There
is a faint knock at the door. Emma lifts hir head.
She looks horribly old and worn out. Her face is
frozen into an expressiordess masky her eyes are red,
rimmed, dvU and lifeless. The knock is repeated more
sharply. Emma rises like a weary automaton and
goes to the door and opens it. Harriet is revealed
standing outside.ll

Harriet — [Making 7M> movcTnent to come inr-
coldly.^ I want to speak to Caleb.

Emma — [DuUy.^ He ain't here. He left a while
back — said he was goin' up street — ^I think.

Harriet — [Worriedly. li Oh, land sakes! [Then
hostUely.^ Do you know where Benny is?

Emma — [Dtdly.'\ Yes, he's here.

Harriet — [Contempt twv^ly.l I might have

DIFF-RENT 288

guessed that! [IcUi/ formal.J Would you mind
tellin' him I want to sec himP

Emma — [Turns and calls. J Bennj! Here's jour
Ma! .

Benny — [Comes from the next roovi.^ Aw right.
[In a fierce whisper as he passes Emma.] What d'you
tell her I was here for, you old fool?

Emma — [Gives no sign of having heard him but
comes back to her chair and sits down. Bennt
slouches to the door — svUevly.'\ What d'you want,
Ma?

Harriet — [Coldly.^ I wanted your Uncle Caleb,
not you, but you'll have to do, bein' the only man
about.

Bekmy — [Suspiciously.^ What is it?

Hahriet — [A bit f right enedly.^ I just heard a
lot of queer noises down to the bam. Someone's in
there, Benny, sure as I'm aliye. They're stealin' the
chickens, must be.

Benny — [Carelessly.'} It's only the rats.

Harrif.t^ — [Angrily.'] Don't play the idiot! This
was a big thumpin' noise no rat'd make,

Benny — ^What'd any guy go stealin' this early —
[As Harriet turns away angrily ^placatingly.'] Aw
right, I'm coming. I'll have a look if that'll satisfy
you. Don't go gettin' sore at me again. [ While he
is speaking He goes out and disappears after his
mother. Emma sits straight and stiff in her chair
for a wkUe, staring before her with waxy eyes. Then
she gets to her feet arid goes from window to window

884 DIFFERENT

taking down M the cturtains with quick mechanical
movements. She throws them on a pUe in the middle
of the floor. She lifts down the framed pictures from
the walls and pHes them on the curtains. She takes
the cushions and throws them on; pushes the rugs
to the pile with her feet; sweeps everything off the
table onto the floor. She does all this without a
trace of change in her expression — rapidly^ but mth
no apparent effort. There is the noise of rwrvrmg
footsteps from outside and Bennt hursts into the
room panting for breath. He is terribly excited and
badly frightened.']

Bennt — \_Stops short as he sees the pUe on the
floor.] What the hell

Emma — [^DtMy.] The junk man's coming for
them in the morning.

Benny — [^Too excited to be surprised.] To heD
with that ! Say, listen, Aunt Emmer, he's hung him-
self — ^Uncle Caleb — in the bam — ^he's dead !

Emma — \^Slowly letting the words fall — like a be-
ginner on the typewriter touching two new letters,]
Caleb — dead !

Benny — \Volvble now.] Dead as a door nail!
Neck's busted. I just cut him down and carried him
to home. Say, you've got to come over and help
look after Ma. She's goin' bugs. I can't do nothin'
with her.

Emma — [As before.] Caleb hanged himself-— in
the bam ?

Benny — ^Yes — ^and made a sure job of it. \W%t^

DIFF'RENT 885

■morbid interest in the detaUs.^ Know how he did it?
You know our bam. The same as joum a'most.
Well, he got a halter — same as you got on your cow
- — and he made a noose of the rope for his neck and
climbed up in the loft and hitched the leather end to
a beam and then let himself drop. He must have
kicked in that quick! [He snaps his fingers — then
urgently.} Say, come on. Come on over 'n' help mc
with Ma, can't you? She's goin' wild. I can't do
no thin' !

Emua — [Vaguely.^ I'll be over — in a minute.
[Then with a sudden air of having decided some-
thing irrevocably.} I got to go down to the bam.

Benny — Bam.-' Say, are you crazy? He ain't
there now. I told you I carried him home.

Emma — I mean — my barn. I got to go down— —

Benny — [Ea;asperated.} Oh hell ! You're as bad
as Ma ! Everyone's lost their heads but me. Well,
I got to get someone else, that's all. [He rushes out
rear, slammmg the door behind him.}

Emua — [After a tense pause — iiiith a sudden out-
burst of wHd grief.} Caleb! [Then in a strange
whisper.} Wait, Caleb, I'm going down to the bam,
[^She moves like a sleepwcAker toward the door in the

[T/i* Curtain Falls.}

►-S..-.4

71 ^

368X

' tJi

.% •*

i-^J^

„,. **■•

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Books

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "The Emperor Jones"

See other formats