Part 4
_Jennings_: You won’t believe him?
_Valentine_: If I wanted to get out of this stir, just the last thing in the world I’d ever do would be to open that vault.
_Jennings_: How so?
_Valentine_: And show ’em how dangerous I am? Why, Al, they’d never sleep nights after that. They’d say, “This guy’ll have everything we own!” Not on your tin-type, Al!
_Jennings_: The main finger knows you’re a sick man, Jimmie—
_Valentine_: If I’m well enough to open one, I’m well enough to open two. The main finger knows that, and if he don’t, the newspapers’ll tell him. Forget it son!
_Jennings_: He wanted me to put it up to you—
_Valentine_: Sure, he knows you’re my friend—he’s a wise bird, all right And I’ll do it, Al—don’t misunderstand me, I’ll do it but I won’t kid myself. I’ll do it for your sake. I’ll say to him: “Give my friend Al a square deal in this place; and Mr. Porter here—”
_Porter_: Don’t do it for me! I wouldn’t let a man do such a thing!
_Valentine_: You mean, filin’ my nails? Hell, what do you suppose that amounts to, when you’re fixed like me? I’ll do it and glad to do it for a friend. Lead me to it!
_Jennings_: I thought Bill would see a story in your stunt, Jimmie; but he says it’s too painful.
_Valentine_ (_looking at Porter with sharp interest_): Well, he’s right. What does anybody want to read about things like that for? People want to be happy, they want some reason fer goin’ on livin’. If you put me in a story, Mr. Porter, put me like I might have been. You wouldn’t think it to see me now, but I was a gay kid once; a good-looker, and the girls all liked me—yes, and I decided to go straight, too, but the bulls wouldn’t let me. There was a guy named Varick, he had me in his note-book, and every time there was a job pulled off, Jimmie Valentine was the first man he thought of; he’d haul me up to headquarters once a week, till I got surly, like a dog chained up. You may believe it or not, I don’t care—but the job I’m here for was a job I never saw.
_Jennings_: Jimmie, Bill here is right; there’s nothing in it for you. Tell the main finger to go to hell.
_Valentine_: No, Al, let me do it. There is somethin’ in it—I’ve just thought of it.
_Jennings_: What’s that?
_Valentine_: It’ll please the old lady. She’ll read about it in the paper, and paste it on the wall, and have somethin to look at the rest of her life. You know how a mother is, she likes her son to be number one, whatever he is—even a safe-cracker! Tell me, Al, you sure she didn’t find out I was sick?
_Jennings_: I swore to her you were head of the machine-shop, and the most useful man in the place.
_Valentine_: I might make the main finger send for her; but that would be worse than nothin’, it would break her heart. I think of her nights, I seem to feel her, wanderin’ round, lookin’ through the gates. Poor old soul, she’s got nothin’ in life but me, and she’s over sixty, and must be feeble. She sits all evenin’ lookin’ at my picture, kissin’ my old coat, prayin’ to Jesus fer my dirty soul. Gee, but it’s tough! (_a pause. Joe is crying_) Well, this’ll be a wet party if we go on. (_rises feebly_) What time does the show start?
_Jennings_: Tomorrow morning, Jimmie.
_Valentine_: All right, Al, tell the main finger I’m game, but I won’t kiss him. And get me a rat file, a good sharp one, with a lot of bite. Good night, Mr. Porter.
_Porter_: Good night.
_Valentine_: Lead me home, Joe. (_takes Joe’s arm and goes feebly off right, to hospital. Porter sits with head in hands, staring before him. Jennings stands silent, wipes a furtive tear from his eyes, and then goes off, left, not daring to trust himself to speak_)
_Porter_ (_to himself_): If you ever put me in a story, put me like I might have been. A gay kid—a good-looker, and the girls all liked me. I decided to go straight too, but the bulls wouldn’t let me. There was a guy named Varick—Varick—
(_a heavy rumbling sound is heard, coming nearer; a burly convict enters at right, on the far side of the counter, wheeling a loaded barrow; it bumps at the door-sills and across the floor; he crosses the stage and goes off left. The contents of this barrow are, of course, hidden from the audience by the counter. Porter follows the progress of the convict with his eyes_)
_Joe_ (_enters right, from hospital, and stands looking at Porter_): Da goes dat po feller Smithers, what hanged hisself; gettin’ his las ride. (_a pause_) Dey was another con croaked tonight—T. B. feller, Jake What’s-his-name. (_a pause_) Dey sho is one mountain of misery in dis place. (_a pause; a sound of faint screams from beneath the stage; Porter starts and puts his hands to his ears_) Dey’s paddlin some po feller down in de basement.
_Porter_: I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!
_Joe_ (_shaking his head mournfully_): Dis aint no place fo a genleman, Misteh Porteh. Dey sho hadn’t ought to put a high-up genleman like you in dis pen.
_Porter_ (_distracted_): Get out, Joe, I want to be alone! Don’t talk to me now! Go along! Turn off that light.
(_Joe backs away, but does not leave the stage; another rumble is heard, another wheelbarrow crosses from right to left. Joe snaps off the light. There is total darkness, and the increasing rumble of the barrow, with the screams from below, gives opportunity for a quick change of the set, as follows: Brass gratings rise up, above the counter on the far side, the gratings having openings, making the cashier’s windows of a bank. There is a gap in these gratings, where the counter may be swung inward upon hinges, giving an entrance to the interior. The shelves below the counter turn on pivots, so that they now appear as bank furnishings. The shelves at the right side of the room turn in the same way. On the left side the wall now appears as the steel door of a bank-vault; this wall runs obliquely, cutting off the back corner of the stage, so that the entire audience can see the steel door, and when it swings open, can see partly into the vault. Joe makes a quick change into the blue uniform of a bank porter. The Judge enters and seats himself at the desk, made up as an elderly, dignified bank president with white moustache and goatee. Delacour, stout and pompous, places himself as cashier at the window. Dr. Walters takes a place outside the gratings, as a bank customer. Porter stands by the half-open door of the vault, watching the scene, as it gradually comes into view by red light._
_The rumble of the wheelbarrow turns into the galloping of horses’ hoofs; the screams from the basement become yells, off-stage left; also revolver shots are heard. Full red light. Al Jennings, mounted on a cow-pony, and clad in cowboy costume, with an arsenal of guns, rides through the entrance to the bank, on the far side of the counter, at left; he is bare-headed, with touseled red hair; carries a revolver in each hand, aims one at the cashier, and waves the other at the whole room. He is followed by Raidler, also in cowboy costume, with guns_)
_Jennings_ (_yells_): I’m Al Jennings, train-bandit, and I’m out for the stuff! Hold up your hands! Your money or your life!
_Raidler_: Meet Raidler, the Oklahoma terror! We want fifteen thousand dollars, and we want it quick!
_Jennings_: Death hides in our shooting irons! Keep your eye on the muzzle, and jump!
_Raidler_: We never speak but once, and we shoot to kill! (_he fires a shot_)
_Jennings_: Keep your hands in the air and commend your souls to your Creator!
_Raidler_: Where are the money bags? (_to Delacour_) Speak, you fat old Shylock!
_Jennings_ (_to Joe_): Open that gate there, coon! Jump, you black bob-tailed monkey! (_he fires a shot, and Joe leaps, in comic terror, and swings back a part of the counter_)
_Jennings_ (_rides into the front of stage and wheels his horse_): Where is the treasure? (_levels gun at the Judge, whose hands shake with fright as he holds them in the air; he tries to speak, but cannot make a sound_) Spit it out, you doddering old note-shaver! Where are the securities? (_turns the guns upon Porter, and for the first time sees him_) Why—why—what’s this? If it ain’t my friend Bill! My old pal of Honduras and San Salvador and the Central American coast! Bill Porter, or I’m dreaming! Welcome to our bandit-crew! (_sticks his guns into the holsters, leaps from his horse, and clasps Porter’s hands_) So this is your joint! Come with us, Bill, come out into the open, we’re Robin Hood and his Merry Men! Bill, we’ve got the loveliest little ranch in Oklahoma; and with this fifteen thousand dollars we’re planning to buy it and settle down. Come along, and share the good life.
_Porter_ (_with his customary gravity, not in the least disturbed by a bank hold-up_): No, Colonel, I can’t help you earn the money, so I can’t help you spend it. I could never point a gun at a man!
_Jennings_: Well, come and hold the horses. We’ll give you a share if you’ll just hold the horses—won’t we, Raidler?
_Raidler_: Sure, anything for a pal of yours.
_Porter_: No, Colonel, I’m sorry; I couldn’t even hold the horses.
_Jennings_: You mean to go straight, hey? Well, go to it—but it tears us apart. (_wrings his hand_) Well, good bye, old man, we’ll ride along, and get our fifteen thousand elsewhere! (_leaps upon his horse_) Pardon us, gentlemen, no offense meant, and none taken, I hope. Clear the way! (_he rides out to far side of counter, joining Raidler_)
_Raidler_: Can’t we shoot even one of them?
_Jennings_: I’d like to bust that fat, white old bond-worm at the counter, but he’d make a mess. Away we go—to the great open spaces! (_they fire a parting volley and ride out as they came; shots and yells outside, and hoof-beats dying away_)
_Judge_ (_recovering the self-possession of a Southern bank-president_): Well, gentlemen, we’ve had an adventure. I think, after that, we’re entitled to a drink. Gather round; I’ll mix them red-hot, in Creole style. (_takes a quart bottle from his desk_) Mr. Porter, we’re obliged to you.
_Dr. Walters_ (_pointing an accusing finger through the grill_): Just a moment, here; I don’t like the job of playing detective, but somebody has to do it. How does this man come to know that bandit? (_silence_) I’ll tell you how; he’s an ex-convict.
_Porter_: That is not true! (_with excitement_) No one shall say it of me! I refuse to go through life with that brand upon my forehead!
_Dr. Walters_: I was the doctor at the Ohio Pen, and I played the detective on him there. Now I’m representing the National Bankers’ Protective Association. Varick is my name—Varick, do you get me? Here’s my shield, if you want to see it.
_Judge_: Gentlemen, in a case like this the first duty of all loyal Southerners is to have a drink. Joe, bring the glasses. Here comes our able and highly respected shoe-merchant—(_Jimmie Valentine enters the front room through the door at right; he is debonair and jaunty, clad in an immaculate business suit, and carrying a suit-case_) Gentlemen, meet Mr. James Valentine. I am happy to enliven the festivities by an auspicious announcement. Mr. Valentine, the leading shoe-merchant of our town, has become engaged to my daughter. Let us drink to the happiness of bride and groom.
_Valentine_: Just a moment, Judge; we’ll have to postpone that liquor. The bride is coming.
_Judge_: Indeed! We are honored! (_he puts away the bottle, and signs Joe to put away the glasses. Faint music, the Lohengrin wedding march. The light fades from red to pale violet. Athol enters at right, in the same costume as Act I, and accompanied by Margaret, in the same costume; also another child, a year or two younger_) Gentlemen, my daughter, and her little nieces, my two grand-daughters. (_all bow, with elaborate politeness_) To what do we owe this honor, daughter?
_Athol_: Jimmie has to take a business trip, and I’m driving him to the depot. I’m tempted to go with him, Daddy. Wouldn’t I make a nice drummer? (_she takes Valentine’s derby hat from his hand and puts it on her head; picks up his suit-case from the floor_) My, how heavy it is! Feels like it was full of gold bricks.
_Valentine_: Lots of nickle-plated shoe-horns in there. Thought I’d save express charges by taking them along with me. I’m getting awfully economical.
_Judge_: While you’re here, daughter, you must see our new safe. Gentlemen, we’ve just had it installed, the very fanciest thing in the county, and we’re proud of it. (_he swings the door and shows it_) The vault is small, but this new patented door is a wonder. Three solid steel bolts are thrown with one handle; it has a time lock, and once that is set and fastened, we defy any safe-cracker in the land. Would you like to examine it, Valentine?
_Valentine_: Unfortunately, I don’t know much about safes; it wouldn’t mean anything to me. (_he politely looks over the outfit_)
_Delacour_ (_to Dr. Walters_): Is there anything I can do for you?
_Dr. Walters_ (_who is leaning on the counter peering through the railings_): No, I’m just waiting for a man I know.
_Margaret_ (_playing with the door_): Oh grandpa, what nice shiny metal! And what funny locks and knobs! Why do you have so many?
_Judge_: They all have their uses. Bank burglars are cunning rogues.
_Margaret_: Does it make a big noise when you shut it?
_Judge_: It will, if you bang it, I guess.
_Margaret_: Grandpa, can I shut the bolts and turn the knob, like I learned to do for the old one?
_Judge_: Yes, sometime, if you happen to be here. (_turns to Valentine_) Valentine, while you’re in the city, I want you to get me a case or two of that superfine Scotch whiskey you brought down last time. I was just on the point of giving these gentlemen a sample of it—the Creole style, red-hot. It will be a memory for them to carry away from our town—(_he is interrupted by a loud clang, as Margaret, having shoved the younger child into the vault in a spirit of play, slams the door, shoots the bolts, and turns the knob of the combination_) What have you done?
_Athol_ (_screams_): Oh, my God!
_Margaret_ (_in terror_): Grandpa! I was just playing!
_Judge_ (_springs to handle and tugs at it_): That door can’t be opened!
_Athol_: Oh, Papa!
_Judge_: The clock hasn’t been wound, nor the combination set!
_Athol_: Oh, God save us!
_Margaret_: Grandpa, I didn’t mean—
_Judge_: Hush! All be quiet for a moment! (_shouts_) _Child!_ Listen to me! (_faint scream of the child behind the door_)
_Athol_: Oh, the poor darling! She will die of fright!
_Joe_: Oh, dat po chile!
_Athol_: Open the door! Break it down! Can’t you men do something?
_Judge_: Heaven help us! There isn’t a man nearer than two hundred miles who can open that door! My god, Valentine, what can we do? That child—she can’t stand too long in there. There isn’t enough air, and besides, she’ll go into convulsions of fright!
_Athol_ (_beats upon the door hysterically with her hands_): Oh, let the child out!
_Delacour_: We’ll have to get some dynamite.
_Judge_: You’re mad, man; it would kill the child!
_Athol_ (_turns to Valentine_): Oh, can’t you do something? _Try_, won’t you?
_Valentine_ (_looks at her with a soft smile_): Dearest, will you give me that rose you are wearing?
_Margaret_: What’s that for? (_she gives it to him_)
_Valentine_ (_stuffs it into his vest-pocket, then throws off his coat and turns up his sleeves_): Get away from that door, all of you. (_takes suit case, lays it on desk, and spreads out complete set of shining burglar’s tools, in orderly fashion; he picks out a steel drill, and starts to work on the door, whistling to himself as he works. All watch him in silence; they look from one to another, and the meaning of their glances is clear—they are realizing that Valentine is a cracksman. Dr. Walters peers through the grill, watching with special intentness. Valentine takes one tool after another, and finally throws back the bolts and opens the door without a word_)
_Athol_ (_catches the half-fainting child in her arms_): Oh, precious! You are safe!
_Valentine_ (_puts on his coat and goes to the passage through the counter; he sees Dr. Walters standing, half blocking this passage, and he smiles_): Well, Varick! Got round at last, have you? Well, let’s go. I don’t know that it makes much difference now.
_Dr. Walters_ (_steps back to let Valentine through the passage_): Guess you’re mistaken, Mr. Valentine. Don’t believe I recognize you. Is that your buggy out there, waiting to take you to the train?
_Judge_ (_shouts_): Jimmie Valentine! Come back here and get that drink before you go. I’ll mix it red-hot, in Creole style. Come back, I tell you! (_Athol and the two children go off right; the light shifts to red; the Judge produces his bottle, and Joe hastens grinning, with glasses. Music and jingle of castanets; Espiritu de la Vina dances on, singing_)
A beber, a beber, a apurar Las Copas de licor Que el vino hara olvidar Las penas del amor.
(_The judge pours the drinks into the glasses; all gather, and lift their glasses in pledge_): Gentlemen, we drink to the health of the Bride. What is the phrase: “The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation!” Gentlemen, the Bride!
_All_: The Bride!
_Espiritu de la Vina_ (_sings_):
De este sabroso jugo, la blanca espuma Aleja de las penas la negra bruma, Si Dios hubiera hecho De vino el mar, de vino el mar, Yo me volviera pato, para nadar, para nadar:— Esta es la vida, bebamos mas, Esta es la vida, bebamos mas.
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ACT III.
SCENE: _The postoffice of the prison._
_The view is from the interior of the office. The counter runs across the stage at the back, and there are two windows, with brass grills, through which the prison inmates get their mail; large racks with pigeon-holes at each side; these counters, including the racks and windows, are built on hinges, to swing back, away from the audience, making a large entrance, as described later. In the center of the stage, towards the front, is a large table, with five chairs; an extra chair in the room. On the left wall of the room, partly occupied by shelves, a portion has been cut into, and a little kitchenette built in; the wall is swung back on hinges, disclosing a gas oven, and shelves for pots and pans, with stock of provisions underneath. An entrance, left, and one on the other side of the room, right._
AT RISE: _Five members of the “Recluse Club” are having a Christmas Eve celebration. The table is set with napery and silver, and remains of a partly consumed meal, including a turkey. Christmas wreaths and bunches of evergreens on the walls and hanging over the table. The members of the club are seated as follows: Porter in the middle seat, facing the audience; Jennings at his right and Delacour at his left. On the right of Jennings sits Raidler, which places him with his right side to the audience; the seat opposite to him, with left side to the audience, belongs to the Judge, but the Judge is now standing at the gas-oven, brewing a hot punch. All five of the men are in that state of gaiety appropriate to a feast. They are all in their prison costumes, save that the Judge has on a cook’s apron. Raidler is a shriveled-up cripple, with crutches on either side of his chair. The Negro Joe is present as a servant; he is not supposed to take part in the laughter and singing, but does so furtively, and on sufferance. He has got a drum-stick of the turkey, and gnaws it, occasionally sticking it away in his pocket when called upon for service. All are singing_:
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here! What the hell do we care? What the hell do we care? Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, What the hell do we care now?
_Jennings_ (_pounds on table with his knife and fork_): Speed her up, Judge, speed her up; we’re perishing!
_Judge_: If you want this punch in style, suh, you’ll have to allow me time fo’ the brewin’ of it, suh.
_Porter_: That’s right, Judge, stand on your dignity.
_Judge_: You won’t wish me to fall below the standard of our banquet, suh. Punch is punch, or it is an affront, suh.
_Jennings_: Three cheers for Creole style. Make it red-hot.
_Raidler_: This was sure one feed!
_Delacour_: Gentlemen, if you could have seen the time Ah had gettin’ that turkey from the commissary clerk! “Do you think,” says he, “that turkeys are runnin’ wil’ in the state of Ohio?” Said Ah: “They appear to be flyin’ higher than any wil’ one on the top of the Alleghanies.”
_Jennings_: If you get to thinking what you paid for this bird, you’ll lose what you’ve swallowed.
_Raidler_: By God, it would be the first time a banker ever coughed up anything good since the days of the first pawn-broker. Who was he, Bill?
_Porter_: The founder of the Medici family, in fifteenth century Venice. The three balls were their family coat of arms.
_Raidler_ (_to Delacour_): Hey, you old Medici, pass the raisins.
_Delacour_: Can it be you’re willin’ to eat what we provide?
_Raidler_: Me? I live off the bankers, as they live off the rest of the world.
_Jennings_: Delacour, when you puff up like that, your eyes are like two pale gooseberries imbedded in a mask of red putty. You have stuffed yourself.
_Delacour_: Did you think Ah cooked that meal to watch _you_ stuff _yourself_?
_Jennings_: You’re the living image of one of the passengers in my first hold-up, on the Santa Fe. It was at night, and this fat, solemn snoozer had managed to get into his frock-tailed coat and high silk hat—but all the rest of him was pajamas and bunions. When I dug into his pockets, I expected to drag out a block of gold-mine stock or an armful of government bonds, but all I found was a little boy’s French harp about four inches long. It made me mad, and I stuck the harp against his mouth. “If you can’t pay, play,” I says. “I can’t play,” says he. “Then learn right off quick,” I says, and let him smell the end of my gun-barrel. So he caught hold of the harp, and turned as red as you, and blew a dinky little tune I used to hear when I was a kid:
Prettiest little gal in the country—oh! Mammy and Daddy told me so.