Moselle. Lucky Tom. How much does it weigh? (Agnes and Tom separate.) What are you doing with my teacher, Tom? Has she set you conjugating? I love—you love—or do you both love? I guess if you'd had as much of that as I had, you'd want a vacation.
Tom. Well, we've been considering Dick's case.
Moselle. And Dick's settled his case by giving himself up to the detective, whom he mag-nan-i-mously—that's a big word: hope I got it right—set free from the tree; and here they are.
Jerden (approaching Tom threateningly). So, you are the one with whom I am to settle.
Tom. Yes: I'm the one (presenting pistol), and here's the other.
Jerden (retreating). Take care: that might go off.
Tom. I'm afraid it will, if you don't. Hark you, stranger! I gave Dick up under a mistake; and I'm afraid, that, when the boys find it out, you'll have hard work to get away. So, what's your figger?
Jerden. I don't understand you.
Tom. No? And you call yourself a detective. When banks send out detectives, they want the rogue and the money. When they can't have both, they'll take one. You can't have Dick; so, what's the figger?
Jerden. Twenty thousand dollars.
Tom. Twenty! Look here, stranger, ain't you settin' it a leetle high? There's not so much money in the whole camp.
Jerden (aside). So I thought. He's mine. (Aloud.) That's the sum. If you can't pay it, I take my man.
Tom. Never.
Dick. Oh, yes, he will! I'm a little anxious to get East, and he'll pay the travelling expenses.
Tom. Well, you are a cool one; but you just wait until I can wake up some of the boys. I shouldn't wonder—No, no. Twenty—
Agnes (to Tom). Don't interfere, Tom: Dick's innocent.
Tom. All right, if you say so.
Agnes. Moselle, we must go. Dick, will you walk with me? I've something particular to say to you.
Dick. If Mr. Jerden makes no objection.
Jerden. All right. I'll follow.
Dick. Of course. (Gives arm to Agnes, and goes to door.)
Agnes. Good-night, Tom.
Tom. Good-night, Agnes.
Dick. Agnes! Tom, you haven't—
Tom. Oh, yes, I have! Rich find. A nugget, Dick. She's mine.
Moselle. Yes, Dick: I caught them mineing.
Jerden (aside). Ah! I have a rival here.
Dick. Tom, old boy, it's glorious: you were made for each other. (Exit with Agnes, door C.)
Moselle. Tom, hunt up daddy: he's lots of dust.
Jerden. Miss Moselle, shall I attend you?
Moselle. You?
Tom. No: Moselle goes with me.
Moselle. No, Tom, you look out for daddy. Come, Mr. Jerden, I'm your prisoner.
Jerden (offers arm). Prisoner?
Moselle (taking his arm). Why not? One good turn deserves another: you were mine a little while ago, now I am yours: ha, ha, ha! how you did struggle to escape!
Jerden. Ah! that was clever. Do you know, I would like to present you with something for that?
Moselle. With what, pray?
Jerden. Something ladies are fond of.
Moselle. Oh, do tell me quick!
Jerden (showing handcuffs). Bracelets.
Moselle. Mercy! come along. (Exeunt C.)
Tom. Twenty—oh, it's no use to think of it; but I must and will find a way to save him!
Nevada (excitedly). Tom Carew, Tom, quick, rouse the boys: I've found it!
Tom. The mine?
Nevada. Yes, yes!
Tom. Glory! Dick's free. Yes, Nevada, you've found it where, where?
Nevada. Hush, not so loud; we must be secret, secret: while I was asleep it all came to me.
Tom. Yes.
Nevada. I saw the narrow path my feet had made in many journeys to it, I saw the tunnel I had dug into the earth, the rocks I had blasted,—I can go straight to it. And then I saw, Tom, I saw an open vein of running gold, pouring out broad and deep. I dabbled my hands in it, dashed it over my head, and then—
Tom. O heavens! 'tis only his madness.
Nevada. I woke.
Tom. To find it but a dream.
Nevada. Yes, yes; but there's luck in dreams, and I shall find it. (Shivers.) I'm cold: may I sit by the fire?
Tom. Yes, Nevada.
Nevada (goes and sits by fire rubbing his hands and warming them). I like this, I like to sit before a fire: I can see faces in the fire,—her's and the little one. See the tall flame back there; that's her face, but oh so haggard and pale! She thinks I will never come; and see, there's a bright little flame dancing up towards her, just as the little child used to climb up into her lap; and there's the little one's face now, and her little fingers beckoning to me. Yes, yes, I'll come, I'll come, with the gold to make us all happy.
Tom. Poor old fellow!
Out of the wilderness,
Out of the wilderness,
Ain't I glad I'm out of the wilderness.
In the classic vernacular of this benighted region, "you bet." Oh for a bottle of Busted's Balm! I'm sore from crown to heel. (Drops pail near door R.)
Tom. Well, stranger, I should say you'd been having a rough and tumble with a grizzly.
Silas. Wrong, stranger. Grizzly and I have been having a "go as you please," and I'm several laps ahead.
Tom. Where did you strike him?
Silas. Strike him! Do you s'pose I'm such a fool as to tackle a grizzly with his war-paint on? I struck for home: I never had such a longing for the dearest spot on earth in all my life. You see, stranger, I started out to do a little embalming for the balm: your friend Vermont's hospitality and bacon had made it necessary for me to take a little exercise. Well, I took a long constitutional, practising a little here and there with the brush, until I espied away up a bowlder,—such a bowlder for a six-sheet poster!—that seemed to offer uncommon facilities for the display of the pronunciamento.
Tom. The what?
Silas. Oh! that staggers you, does it? Well, that's high jinks for the balm. It was the wildest spot I ever scrambled through, the hardest climb I ever attempted; but I reached it, spread the balm in gigantic letters, and was just putting a stop to it, when the earth gave way, and down I went. I didn't have time to take out my watch, but I should think it was about an hour before I stopped dropping. When I did, I found I was underground, evidently in a deserted mine. I might have taken an observation; but an ugly growl in the interior convinced me that the inhabitant of that sequestered spot was not at home for company, so I came out. A little too hurriedly for good manners, perhaps, but with a celerity that astonished me, if it didn't the grizzly. (Sits on bench.) Whew! such a run! Excuse me, stranger, if I stretch out a bit. (Lies on bench.) I've had enough of the balm (yawns) for one day, now I'm going in for a little of the balmy (yawns) sleep. Stop a bit. (Raises himself.) Must look out for the dust. (Takes bag from his breast, and places it under his head. Yawns.) Such a tramp (yawns) along the ravine, three miles. (Nevada, who has been crouching looking into the fire, raises his head, and looks at Silas.) Then over the bowlders to where the big tree lies across (yawns) across the creek. (Nevada rises, and approaches stealthily.) Across it to the gorge, beyond (yawns), a good mile. (Nevada still nearer, agitated, glaring at Silas. Tom seated R. of table watches him.) And then to the right (yawns); no, to the—(Yawns and sleeps.)
Nevada. He's found it! (About to rush upon Silas, Tom steps before him; they struggle, and Tom forces him back to door.)
Tom. Madman, what would you do?
Nevada (in door). Kill him. He has struck the trail. He would rob me of my treasures, but I'll be before him. Let him dare to meet me there; let him attempt to enter, and he shall find old Nevada a giant defending his own. His river of gold! ha, ha! The old man has not lost his cunning nor his strength. (Shaking his fist at Silas.) Beware of him! (Exit C.)
Tom. Off again as wild as ever. (Comes down, and looks at Silas.) Another moment, and he'd have been at his throat. What could have moved him so?
Silas (moves). Along the ravine—
Tom (starts back). Ah! that old story. How often have we heard it! Nevada's oft-told story in this stranger's mouth. Has he in truth, as Nevada said, struck the trail that leads to the lost mine? Has he found the clew to the mystery of years? If he has, 'tis marked, and should be found. There's a fortune for him who strikes it. A fortune would set Dick free, and make Agnes my wife. So, Tom Carew, for love and friendship try your luck, and—
Silas (moves and mutters). Look out for paint.
Tom. Right, stranger. Where you left your mark, I'll look for gold. (Exit C. and off L. Vermont passes window, and stops in door looking after Tom.)
Vermont. Tom Carew, I reckon, scootin' away like a cotton-tailed rabbit. Outer my ranch, too. (Comes down.) Can't find a trace of that tender foot: he's shook me clean. (Sees Silas.) Thar he is. (Sits R. of table.) Blamed if the chap ain't been underground. He's struck dirt, and it sticks to him. (Places elbow on knee, chin on hand, and watches Silas. Jube appears at window.)
Jube. Golly! dat ole man means mischief. He's jes' been trailin' arter dat ar tender hoof. What's de cunundrum? what he want? Go slow, ole man, I's watchin'.
Win-Kye (stealthily sticking his head in at door). Paintee man sleepee, Vellemontee watchee, Win-Kye alle samee.
Vermont. Sleepin' jest like a little kid, dreaming of the old mother way down East. Well I remember the time when the old boys, young then, used to think of the old folks, and long for the time to come when they should get fixed up with dust, and go home. How we did dream! and what a sorter lonesome feelin' would come over us, and then we'd get careless. They seemed so far away, till news would come that somebody we knew had passed in his checks, and was farther, farther away. (Draws his sleeve across his eyes.)
Jube. Golly! de ole man's crying. See de weeps! See de weeps!
Vermont. Tender foot shall go back well fixed. I've been watching for a chance, and now's the time. (Rises and looks about cautiously. Jube and Win-Kye disappear. Vermont creeps toward Silas. Jube and Win-Kye reappear as before.)
Jube. What's de racket?
Vermont. His bag of dust is under his head. I must have it. (Creeps nearer, and places his hand on bag.)
Jube. Gwine to rob him? It's all out. Can't stan' dat. Whar's dat rebolber? (points revolver at Vermont) ain't goin' to be no foo' in dis yer camp.
Win-Kye (sees paint-pot near door). Paintee man, blushee all light. Me paintee too. (Takes brush, smells of it, makes a wry face.) Smelle stlong. Smelle kelosenee. (Vermont pulls bag away.)
Jube. Buglery, buglery! but I's got de bead on him; jes' wait till he stows it away. (Vermont, on one knee, takes a bag from his breast.)
Jube. Dat's de game: take out ob whosen's bag, and put in hisen; but—but I got de bead on him. (Vermont opens Silas's bag, and pours dust from his bag into it.)
Jube. What's dat? Dar's some mistook. But I got de bead on him.
Win-Kye (with brush creeps under the window). Me paintee, Jube, whitee, all ligh'. (Vermont puts back his bag, then about to restore the other under Silas's head; as he touches him, Silas springs up. Vermont rises to his feet.)
Silas (seizing him). Ah! would you? (They wrestle; and, with a trip, Silas throws him back on stool R. of table, his back against table, draws a revolver from his hip-pocket, and points it at his head.) Yours for health.
Jube. Now, tangle hoof jes' spoiled de fun, but he's got de bead.
Vermont. Don't shoot: I'm your dad.
Silas. My dad?
Jube. Golly! de ole man's a fader. Ought to be ashamed ob hisself.
Win-Kye. Jubee! (Crouching, sticks brush straight above his head.)
Jube. Well, was de matter? (Leans down, Win-Kye thrusts the brush into his face.)
Win-Kye. Lookee out for paintee. (Jube starts back with a yell quick.)
Act III.—Same as Act I.—Win-Kye enters down run, carrying paint-pail in one hand, brush in other.
Win-Kye. Ole man talkee, painteeman talkee: all ligh', Win-Kye walkee, cally pail, inside he mouth he plenty cly, "lookee out fol paint." Painteeman, Chinaman, alle same.
Jube (appearing on run). Win, you imp ob sin, you, you Shanghi, you jes' brung back dat ar whitewash.
Win-Kye. All ligh', Jubee, me bling 'em back, in the sweetee bymby.
Jube (comes down). Look yere, you Celestial imp, quit yer fool! dis year ain't no time for mischievity; dis year am a solem' occasion; de ole man's found his long forgotten chile,—his lost offsprung,—an'—an' you've run off wid der baby's playthings.
Win-Kye. Muchee solly, baby cly. Supposee you sing him,—
"Littee Jack Horner
Makee sit inside corner,
Chow-chow he Clismas pie.
He put inside tu'm,
Hab catchee one plum.
Hi, yah! what one good chilo my!"
Jube. Golly! hear dat Chineesers infusions ob potrey. Dat all comes ob his contract wid art. Win-Kye, gib me dem ar 'tensils.
Win-Kye. Me paintee locks, me paintee tlees, all samee so. (Points at sign on rock.) "Washee, washee." (Exit 1 E. R.)
Jube. See him hoof it. Dis years de melencolic effect ob tryin' to turn a mongo into a Sambo. I's jes' tried to cibilize dat ar heathen, to gib him a brack heart; an' he no sooner gits a hold ob a paint-brush, off he goes, like ole Nebacanoozer, on a tear.
Moselle. Jube, have you seen my daddy?
Jube. Seen your what? Golly, Mosey, you took my bref away! Seen him! Well, I guess, Mosey, dar was a yearthquake jes' flopped ober dis year camp las' night: seed it, seed it, felt de shock fro my physical cistern; an' I guess de ole man is scourin' round to kill a fatted calf or a mule.
Moselle. What are you talking about, Jube?
Jube. Mosey, brace yerself: be a man. De Book ob Rebelation am open. Abigal's son am returned.
Moselle. Who's son?
Jube. Abigal's son. Don't you know what de good Book says?
Moselle. The prodigal son, Jube.
Jube. What's de dif? what's de dif? Dat gal's son am returned to his fadder's buzzum; and you're shook. You may cry, "Hi, daddy! ho, daddy!" but dar am no daddy.
Moselle. Jube, tell me, quick, what has happened to daddy?
Jube. I'll tole yer all about it. Las' night I went down to de ole man's ranch on perticlar business. Well, de ole man was down dar, I was down dar, Win was down dar, an'—an' somebody else was down dar. Now, you know de ole man dat was down dar; you know me dat was down dar; you know Win dat was down dar; but—but you can't guess who dat somebody else was, dat was down dar, to dat ar ranch down dar.
Moselle. Why should I guess who was down dar, when you are so anxious to tell me?
Jube. Well, I tole yer.
Vermont. At your peril, Jube.
Moselle. O daddy, here you are! (Crosses from L. to R.) I was about to hear something dreadful about you.
Jube. Yas, indeed. I was jes' breakin' to her, genteel, de mournful tidin's.
Vermont. I'll break your head if you say another word. You git.
Jube. Yas; but I got her all braced. I can finish in just free minutes. You see, I was down dar—
Vermont. If you're not up there in less than three minutes—(Puts hand behind him.)
Jube (runs up stage). Don't you do it, don't you do it. I was only goin' to say dat, dat somebody else down dar—
Vermont. Start.
Jube. Was Abigal's son. (Dashes up run, and off)
Moselle. Ha, ha, ha! Poor Jube! He missed his chance by stopping too long "down dar." Now, daddy, what's the matter? where's the "yearthquake" struck?
Vermont. That's some of the darkey's nonsense.
Moselle. Now, daddy, that's a fib. Look me in the eye. No. Stop! If it's any thing I should know, you will tell me: you've always been so good to me.
Vermont. Well, never mind me. What have they done with Dandy Dick, the forger?
Moselle. He's no forger. He's as innocent of crime as you are. O daddy! I want some money.
Vermont. All right, little one. (Pulls out bag.) What's the figger?
Moselle. It's rather high.
Vermont. Never mind: the bank's open.
Moselle. Twenty thousand dollars.
Vermont. Twenty! Bank's broke. (Puts back bag.) We ain't struck no diamond mine lately, and nuggets are scarce. Couldn't you make a little discount?
Moselle. O daddy! twenty thousand dollars will set Dick free.
Vermont. Free! Not an ounce of dust comes out of my bag for him. He's played you a mean trick; and, if the detective don't take him off, I will. Why, Mosey, I thought you had more spirit.
Moselle. I love him, daddy.
Vermont. And he with another gal hanging round his neck.
Moselle. Why, daddy, she's his sister!
Vermont. What! (Aside.) Another prodigal! This camp's getting lively. (Aloud.) His sister. That's another sort.
Moselle. And you will find the money?
Vermont. Find twenty thousand? Oh, yes, Mosey! I'll take my pick, and go right off. As finds are about here, it may take a few years—
Moselle. Years! We must have it to-day. O daddy, you've plenty banked at Carson!
Vermont. Mosey, when you was a little gal, we used to sit down by the creek.
Moselle. Where you found me, longer ago than I can remember.
Vermont. We used to sit there day after day, while I told you stories.
Moselle. Yes, fairy stories.
Vermont (sits on rock, R.). I'll tell you one now.
Moselle (sits on the ground beside him, throws arm across his knee). A fairy story?
Vermont. I reckon. Once on a time there was a gospel shebang, and in it was a gospel sharp and a pan lifter.
Moselle. You mean a church, a parson, and a deacon?
Vermont. That's just what I mean.
Moselle. Then, please remember, you are talking to a young lady, and not to the boys.
Vermont. Jes' so. Well, the parson and the deacon didn't hitch horses,—couldn't work in the same hole,—were always flinging dirt all over each other, whenever they got to arguing. So one day they had it hot about wrastling Jacob and the angel. The deacon thought Jacob didn't have a fair show. He allowed that Jacob, at collar and elbow, would have thrown the angel every round; and the parson got mad, and told the deacon if he'd step behind the she—church, he'd show him the angel's trip. The deacon wa'n't to be stumped at wrastlin', so at it they went. Three rounds, and the deacon went to grass every time. Now, when a parson can throw a deacon, it shows a backslidin' that's not healthy. So the deacon thought, and quietly packed his kit, and started for green fields and pasters new, leaving behind a wife and kids. Well, he struck jest about such a place as this, and stuck to it twelve years. He didn't forget the folks at home. Both his heart and his dust went back to 'em, and sometimes he'd have given all his old boots for one look at 'em.
Moselle. Why didn't he go back?
Vermont. What! With that wrastlin' angel bossing the shebang? Not for Jacob.
Moselle. Ho, ho! You are the deacon.
Vermont. I was. Now I'm only Vermont.
Moselle. And my daddy.
Vermont. Last night I wrastled again. I was thrown, and by a boy—my kid—from old Vermont.
Moselle. Your son?
Vermont. You bet.
Moselle. Oh, daddy! ain't you glad?
Vermont. Glad! Why, Mosey, he's got the angel trip, by which the parson threw me.
Moselle. But ain't you glad he's found you? It must be so good to hear news from home.
Vermont. Well, Mosey, you keep quiet: I don't want the boys to know he's my son. I've told you—
Moselle. A fairy story. I understand.
Vermont. Jes' so. A fairy story, without the fairy.
Moselle (rising). Oh! you're the fairy, for you are always doing good. But where is he? I must see him.
Vermont. In my ranch.
Moselle. I'll just run down and have a peep at him,—the boy who threw the deacon—no, the fairy. Ha, ha, ha! (Runs off R. 2 E.)
Vermont. I reckon I'm a healthy old fairy.
Mother. Where's Moselle?
Vermont. She's just run down to have a look at the kid—
Mother. A look at what?
Vermont (aside). Hang it! There's a slip for the fairy. (Aloud.) She's just run down to my ranch. She'll be back in a minute. Widder, you believe that story about the creek and Mosey?
Mother. Certainly.
Vermont. Don't believe it any longer: it's a blamed lie.
Mother. Vermont!
Vermont. That's me, and here's the truth. I was diggin' in Goblin Gulch in them days; and one night a woman, with a child in her arms, came to my ranch. Poor thing! she was all used up with tramping. She was looking for a miner,—her husband, she said. She told me his name; and when she found I didn't know him, she jest dropped on the ground, and died there. I was alone with a dead woman and a live child, and not another soul within five miles. Well, widder, I was skeered. If I was found with them, as likely as not I'd been lynched for murder. So I jest buried the mother, and brought the child to you.
Widow. What was the name of her husband?
Vermont. Widder, that's the mischief. Blame my old wooden head, I couldn't remember. That's why I brought Mosey to you with a lie. If I'd told the truth, that would have been the first question you'd have asked me. If I could only remember that,—if I could only hear it again.
Mother. That would be a clew to Moselle's parentage.
Vermont. It will come to me some day. Till then, the little one has a daddy in old Vermont.
Mother. And a mother in me.
Vermont (holds out hand). Widder, put it there. (They shake hands.) I've heard tell of some wimmen that banked all their affections in one buzzum, and, when the proprietor of that bank went prospecting among the stars, kept gathering the same kind of gold-dust for the final deposit. I reckon, widder, you're one of that kind. And when you jine your pardner, Tom Merton, pure ore will be scarce in Nevada.
Mother. Ah, Vermont, what a pity you're a bachelor! You'd make such a good father.
Vermont (confused). Well, yes, jes' so. (Aside.) What will she say when she sees the kid?
Mother. And such a good husband! When I look at you, it seems as if I had my dear old man back again. Poor Tom! (Puts apron to her eyes.)
Vermont (looks at her, scratches his head). Poor old gal! (Puts arm around her waist.) Cheer up, widder: it's only a little while, and you'll hear his voice calling—
Silas (appearing on run). Say, dad, where's my paint-pot?
Vermont. The kid! (Runs off R. 2 E. Mother screams, and runs into cabin.)
Silas. For further particulars see small bills. After so recent reminders of his connubial relations, it strikes me that the deacon is a little giddy, and the sooner he is returned to the bosom of his family, the better.
Moselle. There was no one there. (Sees Silas.) Hallo, medicine man! Where's daddy?
Silas. My daddy?
Moselle. No: mine,—Vermont.
Silas (aside). Her daddy! Great heavings! The deacon's a Mormon! (Aloud.) So, Vermont is your daddy?
Moselle. Why, certainly. Didn't you know that?
Silas. Well, no. I haven't examined the family records lately. Who's your mammy?
Moselle. Mother Merton.
Silas. Murder!
Moselle. What's the matter?
Silas. That accounts for it.
Moselle. Accounts for what?
Silas. The very affecting embrace of an aged Romeo and a mature Juliet. I just now interrupted a tight squeeze, in which your mammy was the squeezeed, and your daddy the squeezor.
Moselle. You saw that? Ha, ha, ha! Won't the boys be tickled!
Silas. Boys! Do you mean to say there are boys too?
Moselle. Why, certainly, lots of them.
Silas (aside). Great Scott! There'll be music in the air, with an anvil chorus thrown in, when daddy goes marching home. (Aloud.) But where do I come in?
Moselle. You?
Silas. Yes. For if Vermont is your daddy, and Mother Merton your mammy, and Deacon Steele is my father, and Hannah Steele is my mother, I must belong somewhere among the boys—of the old boy.
Moselle. Why, you must be the kid—Abigal's son. Ha, ha, ha!
Silas. Abigal! (Aside.) What! Another family springing up! Oh, this is too much! Hannah Steele's young ones—Mother Merton's boys—Abigal's kid. The old Turk! I must get the old man home.
Moselle. So you're the boy that threw his father?
Silas. Threw him! Why, he's floored me!
Moselle. I'm real glad you've found him, he's so lonesome sometimes. And daddy's got a big heart that would take the whole world in.
Silas (aside). He seems to have taken in a pretty big slice of the better half already.
Moselle. Now, you must have great influence with daddy, and you must help me free Dick.
Silas. Who's Dick?
Moselle. One of the boys.
Silas (aside). Thought so. (Aloud.) Well, how can I help you free brother Dick?
Moselle. By inducing daddy to find the money.
Silas. Oh! Dick's in a scrape?
Moselle. Yes; and twenty thousand dollars will set him free. Daddy has it.
Silas (aside). So daddy's a big bonanza, as well as a bigamist.
Moselle. You see, Dick's accused of forgery; but he's innocent. A detective has secured him, and will take him back to-day, unless the money is found to reimburse the bank with what Richard Fairlee is supposed to have defrauded it.
Silas. Richard Fairlee? I've heard that name before.
Moselle. Alice Fairlee's brother.
Silas (aside). Heavings! Another tribe. Richard!—Ah! I have it.
Win-Kye. All time walkee, paintee tlee, paintee lock—
Silas. Ah, the thief! Give me that paint. (Runs at Win-Kye, with outstretched arm. Win-Kye runs under it, and up C.)
Win-Kye. Not muchee. My can go all ligh'. Melican man chin-chin girly. Chinaman look out for paintee. (Exit up run.)
Silas. Stop, I say! He's off, and I'm after him. (Runs up and turns.) I'll look out for Dick by and by. Just now I must look out for paint. (Exit.)
Moselle. Ha, ha, ha! you'll have a long chase.
Agnes. Moselle, how can you laugh when this very day Dick leaves us?
Moselle. He's not gone yet; and just as surely as I believe in his innocence, just so sure am I that something will prevent his departure. Tom Carew has not been seen this morning, and he's not the man to desert a friend. Depend upon it, he is working for his release from that horrid detective.
Jerden. Meaning me. Thanks for your complimentary notice, and a thousand thanks for the hospitality which has given my prisoner and myself a good night's rest and a hearty breakfast. (Crosses to R.) Mr. Fairlee is packing up, and in a few moments you will be rid of us.
Moselle. Dick packing up? I'll stop that. (Exit into cabin.)
Jerden. Miss Fairlee, you accompany your brother, of course?
Agnes. No, sir: at his request I remain here.
Jerden. You remain? impossible! You will not suffer your brother to meet his trial without you by his side to comfort him?
Agnes. If he wishes it, yes.
Jerden. But this is unnatural, heartless—
Agnes. Sir?
Jerden. I beg your pardon; but your presence in New York would aid him greatly in establishing his innocence.
Agnes. Ah! you believe he is innocent?
Jerden. Return with us, and I will prove him so.
Agnes. Who are you?
Jerden. One who has long loved you,—who, though a detective, has wealth and power to set your brother free, and surround you with every luxury.
Agnes. Why, this is madness. I know you not but as one to be despised, a man-hunter and a thief-taker.
Jerden. Nay, but I can explain—
Agnes. Nothing to satisfy me that you are not a base wretch seeking to profit by the anxiety of a sister. I remain here.
Jerden. Go you must and shall, even if I have to arrest you as the accomplice of your brother.
Agnes. You would not dare. I have only to raise my voice, to bring to my side a score of manly fellows, who would swing you from a tree, and free your prisoner. Here law is justice, and war on women a crime.
Jerden. And yet I dare. Your flight so soon after your brother, your being found here together, are strong proof of your complicity in the crime.
Agnes. Another word, and I call.