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DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The Prodigals.

"SANDY".. Son of Alexander Morton, sen.

JOHN OAKHURST.. His former partner, personating the prodigal son, Sandy.

COL. STARBOTTLE.. Alexander Morton, sen.'s, legal adviser.

OLD MORTON.. Alexander Morton, sen.

DON JOSE.. Father of Jovita Castro.

CAPPER.. A detective.

CONCHO.. Major-domo of Don Jose's rancho.

YORK.. An old friend of Oakhurst.

PRITCHARD.. An Australian convict.

SOAPY & SILKY.. His pals.

JACKSON.. Confidential clerk of Alexander Morton, jun., and confederate of Pritchard.

HOP SING.. A Chinese laundryman.

SERVANT of Alexander Morton, sen.—POLICEMEN.

MISS MARY MORRIS.. The schoolmistress of Red Gulch, in love with Sandy, and cousin of Alexander Morton, sen.

DONA JOVITA CASTRO.. In love with John Oakhurst, and daughter of Don Jose.

THE DUCHESS.. Wife of Pritchard, illegally married to Sandy, and former "flame" of John Oakhurst.

MANUELA.. Servant of Castro, and maid to Dona Jovita.

ACT I

The Rancho of the Blessed Innocents, and House of Don Jose Castro.

ACT II

Red Gulch.

ACT III

The Banking-House of Morton & Son, San Francisco.

ACT IV

The Villa of Alexander Morton, sen., San Francisco.

COSTUMES

ALEXANDER MORTON ("SANDY").—First dress: Mexican vaquero; black velvet trousers open from knee, over white trousers; laced black velvet jacket, and broad white sombrero; large silver spurs. Second dress: miner's white duck jumper, and white duck trousers; (sailor's) straw hat. Third dress: fashionable morning costume. Fourth dress: full evening dress.

JOHN OAKHURST.—First dress: riding-dress, black, elegantly fitting. Second and third dress: fashionable. Fourth dress: full evening dress.

COL. STARBOTTLE.—First dress: blue double-breasted frock, and white "strapped" trousers; white hat. Second dress: same coat, blue trousers, and black broad-brimmed felt hat; cane, semper; ruffles, semper. Third dress: the same. Fourth dress: the same, with pumps.

YORK.—Fashionable morning dress.

JACKSON.—Business suit.

CONCHO.—First dress: vaquero's dress. Second dress: citizen's dress.

HOP SING.—Dress of Chinese coolie: dark-blue blouse, and dark-blue drawers gathered at ankles; straw conical hat, and wooden sabots.

DON JOSE.—First dress: serape, black, with gold embroidery. Second class: fashionable black suit, with broad-brimmed black stiff sombrero.

OLD MORTON.—First, second, third, and fourth dress: black, stiff, with white cravat.

CAPPER.—Ordinary dress of period.

MISS MARY.—First dress: tasteful calico morning dress. Second and third dress: lady's walking costume—fashionable. Fourth dress: full dress.

DONA JOVITA.—First dress: handsome Spanish dress, with manta. Second dress: more elaborate, same quality.

THE DUCHESS.—First dress: elaborate but extravagant fashionable costume. Second dress: traveling dress.

MANUELA.—The saya y manta; white waist, and white or black skirt, with flowers.

ACT I

SCENE 1.—Courtyard and Corridors of the Rancho

MANUELA (arranging supper-table in corridor L., solus). There! Tortillas, chocolate, olives, and—the whiskey of the Americans! And supper's ready. But why Don Jose chooses to-night, of all nights, with this heretic fog lying over the Mission Hills like a wet serape, to take his supper out here, the saints only know. Perhaps it's some distrust of his madcap daughter, the Dona Jovita; perhaps to watch her—who knows? And now to find Diego. Ah, here he comes. So! The old story. He is getting Dona Jovita's horse ready for another madcap journey. Ah! (Retires to table.)

Enter cautiously from corridor, L., SANDY MORTON, carrying lady's saddle and blanket; starts on observing MANUELA, and hastily hides saddle and blanket in recess.

Sandy (aside). She's alone. I reckon the old man's at his siesta yet. Ef he'll only hang onto that snooze ten minutes longer, I'll manage to let that gal Jovita slip out to that yer fandango, and no questions asked.

Manuela (calling SANDY). Diego!

Sandy (aside, without heeding her). That's a sweet voice for a serenade. Round, full, high-shouldered, and calkilated to fetch a man every time. Only thar ain't, to my sartain knowledge, one o' them chaps within a mile of the rancho. (Laughs.)

Manuela. Diego!

Sandy (aside). Oh, go on! That's the style o' them Greasers. They'll stand rooted in their tracks, and yell for a chap without knowin' whether he's in sight or sound.

Manuela (approaching SANDY impatiently). Diego!

Sandy (starting, aside). The devil! Why, that's ME she's after. (Laughs.) I clean disremembered that when I kem yer I tole those chaps my name was James,—James Smith (laughs), and thet they might call me "Jim." And De-a-go's their lingo for Jim. (Aloud.) Well, my beauty, De-a-go it is. Now, wot's up?

Manuela. Eh? no sabe!

Sandy. Wot's your little game. (Embraces her.)

Manuela (aside, and recoiling coquettishly). Mother of God! He must be drunk again. These Americans have no time for love when they are sober. (Aloud and coquettishly.) Let me go, Diego. Don Jose is coming. He has sent for you. He takes his supper to-night on the corridor. Listen, Diego. He must not see you thus. You have been drinking again. I will keep you from him. I will say you are not well.

Sandy. Couldn't you, my darling, keep him from ME? Couldn't you make him think HE was sick? Couldn't you say he's exposin' his precious health by sittin' out thar to-night; thet ther's chills and fever in every breath? (Aside.) Ef the old Don plants himself in that chair, that gal's chances for goin' out to-night is gone up.

Manuela. Never. He would suspect at once. Listen, Diego. If Don Jose does not know that his daughter steals away with you to meet some caballero, some LOVER,—you understand, Diego,—it is because he does not know, or would not SEEM to know, what every one else in the rancho knows. Have a care, foolish Diego! If Don Jose is old and blind, look you, friend, we are NOT. You understand?

Sandy (aside). What the devil does she expect?—money? No! (Aloud.) Look yer, Manuela, you ain't goin' to blow on that young gal! (Putting his arm around her waist.) Allowin' that she hez a lover, thar ain't nothin' onnateral in thet, bein' a purty sort o' gal. Why, suppose somebody should see you and me together like this, and should just let on to the old man.

Manuela. Hush! (Disengaging herself.) Hush! He is coming. Let me go, Diego. It is Don Jose!

Enter Don Jose, who walks gravely to the table, and seats himself. MANUELA retires to table.

Sandy (aside). I wonder if he saw us. I hope he did: it would shut that Manuela's mouth for a month of Sundays. (Laughs.) God forgive me for it! I've done a heap of things for that young gal Dona Jovita; but this yer gittin' soft on the Greaser maid-servant to help out the misses is a little more than Sandy Morton bargained fur.

Don Jose (to MANUELA). You can retire. Diego will attend me. (Looks at DIEGO attentively.) [Exit MANUELA.

Sandy (aside). Diego will attend him! Why, blast his yeller skin, does he allow that Sandy Morton hired out as a purty waiter-gal? Because I calkilated to feed his horses, it ain't no reason thet my dooty to animals don't stop thar. Pass his hash! (Turns to follow MANUELA, but stops.) Hello, Sandy! wot are ye doin', eh? You ain't going back on Miss Jovita, and jest spile that gal's chances to git out to-night, on'y to teach that God-forsaken old gov'ment mule manners? No! I'll humor the old man, and keep one eye out for the gal. (Comes to table, and leans familiarly over the back of DON JOSE'S chair.)

Don Jose (aside). He seems insulted and annoyed. His manner strengthens my worst suspicions. He has not expected this. (Aloud.) Chocolate, Diego.

Sandy (leaning over table carelessly). Yes, I reckon it's somewhar thar.

Don Jose (aside). He is unused to menial labor. If I should be right in my suspicions! if he really were Dona Jovita's secret lover! This gallantry with the servants only a deceit! Bueno! I will watch him. (Aloud.) Chocolate, Diego!

Sandy (aside). I wonder if the old fool reckons I'll pour it out. Well, seein's he's the oldest. (Pours chocolate awkwardly, and spills it on the table and DON JOSE.)

Don Jose (aside). He IS embarrassed. I am right. (Aloud.) Diego!

Sandy (leaning confidentially over DON JOSE'S chair). Well, old man!

Don Jose. Three months ago my daughter the Dona Jovita picked you up, a wandering vagabond, in the streets of the Mission. (Aside.) He does not seem ashamed. (Aloud.) She—she—ahem! The aguardiente, Diego.

Sandy (aside). That means the whiskey. It's wonderful how quick a man learns Spanish. (Passes the bottle, fills DON JOSE'S glass, and then his own. DON JOSE recoils in astonishment.) I looks toward ye, ole man. (Tosses off liquor.)

Don Jose (aside). This familiarity! He IS a gentleman. Bueno! (Aloud.) She was thrown from her horse; her skirt caught in the stirrup; she was dragged; you saved her life. You—

Sandy (interrupting, confidentially drawing a chair to the table, and seating himself). Look yer! I'll tell you all about it. It wasn't that gal's fault, ole man. The hoss shied at me, lying drunk in a ditch, you see; the hoss backed, the surcle broke; it warn't in human natur for her to keep her seat, and that gal rides like an angel; but the mustang throwed her. Well, I sorter got in the way o' thet hoss, and it stopped. Hevin' bin the cause o' the hoss shyin', for I reckon I didn't look much like an angel lyin' in that ditch, it was about the only squar thing for me to waltz in and help the gal. Thar, thet's about the way the thing pints. Now, don't you go and hold that agin her!

Don Jose. Well, well! She was grateful. She has a strange fondness for you Americans; and at her solicitation I gave you—YOU, an unknown vagrant—employment here as groom. You comprehend, Diego. I, Don Jose Castro, proprietor of this rancho, with an hundred idle vaqueros on my hands,—I made a place for you.

Sandy (meditatively). Umph.

Don Jose. You said you would reform. How have you kept your word? You were drunk last Wednesday.

Sandy. Thet's so.

Don Jose. And again last Saturday.

Sandy (slowly). Look yer, ole man, don't ye be too hard on me: that was the same old drunk.

Don Jose. I am in no mood for trifling. Hark ye, friend Diego. You have seen, perhaps,—who has not?—that I am a fond, an indulgent father. But even my consideration for my daughter's strange tastes and follies has its limit. Your conduct is a disgrace to the rancho. You must go.

Sandy (meditatively). Well, I reckon, perhaps I'd better.

Don Jose (aside). His coolness is suspicious. Can it be that he expects the girl will follow him? Mother of God! perhaps it has been already planned between them. Good! Thank Heaven I can end it here. (Aloud.) Diego!

Sandy. Old man.

Don Jose. For my daughter's sake, you understand,—for her sake,—I am willing to try you once more. Hark ye! My daughter is young, foolish, and romantic. I have reason to believe, from her conduct lately, that she has contracted an intimacy with some Americano, and that in her ignorance, her foolishness, she has allowed that man to believe that he might aspire to her hand. Good! Now listen to me. You shall stay in her service. You shall find out,—you are in her confidence,—you shall find out this American, this adventurer, this lover if you please, of the Dona Jovita my daughter; and you will tell him this,—you will tell him that a union with him is impossible, forbidden; that the hour she attempts it, without my consent, she is PENNILESS; that this estate, this rancho, passes into the hands of the Holy Church, where even your laws cannot reach it.

Sandy (leaning familiarly over the table). But suppose that he sees that little bluff, and calls ye.

Don Jose. I do not comprehend you (coldly).

Sandy. Suppose he loves that gal, and will take her as she stands, without a cent, or hide or hair of yer old cattle.

Don Jose (scornfully). Suppose—a miracle! Hark ye, Diego! It is now five years since I have known your countrymen, these smart Americanos. I have yet to know when love, sentiment, friendship, was worth any more than a money value in your market.

Sandy (truculently and drunkenly). You hev, hev ye? Well, look yar, ole man. Suppose I REFUSE. Suppose I'd rather go than act as a spy on that young gal your darter! Suppose that—hic—allowin' she's my friend, I'd rather starve in the gutters of the Mission than stand between her and the man she fancies. Hey? Suppose I would—damn me! Suppose I'd see you and your derned old rancho in—t'other place—hic—damn me. You hear me, ole man! That's the kind o' man I am—damn me.

Don Jose (aside, rising contemptuously). It is as I suspected. Traitor. Ingrate! Satisfied that his scheme has failed, he is ready to abandon her. And this—THIS is the man for whom she has been ready to sacrifice everything,—her home, her father! (Aloud, coldly.) Be it so, Diego: you shall go.

Sandy (soberly and seriously, after a pause.) Well, I reckon I had better. (Rising.) I've a few duds, old man, to put up. It won't take me long. (Goes to L., and pauses.)

Don Jose (aside). Ah! he hesitates! He is changing his mind. (SANDY returns slowly to table, pours out glass of liquor, nods to DON JOSE, and drinks.) I looks towards ye, ole man. Adios!

[Exit SANDY.

Don Jose. His coolness is perfect. If these Americans are cayotes in their advances, they are lions in retreat! Bueno! I begin to respect him. But it will be just as well to set Concho to track him to the Mission; and I will see that he leaves the rancho alone.

[Exit Jose.

Enter hurriedly JOVITA CASTRO, in riding habit, with whip.

So! Chiquita not yet saddled, and that spy Concho haunting the plains for the last half-hour. What an air of mystery! Something awful, something deliciously dreadful, has happened! Either my amiable drunkard has forgotten to despatch Concho on his usual fool's errand, or he is himself lying helpless in some ditch. Was there ever a girl so persecuted? With a father wrapped in mystery, a lover nameless and shrouded in the obscurity of some Olympian height, and her only confidant and messenger a Bacchus instead of a Mercury! Heigh ho! And in another hour Don Juan—he told me I might call him John—will be waiting for me outside the convent wall! What if Diego fails me? To go there alone would be madness! Who else would be as charmingly unconscious and inattentive as this American vagabond! (Goes to L.) Ah, my saddle and blanket hidden! He HAS been interrupted. Some one has been watching. This freak of my father's means something. And to-night, of all nights, the night that Oakhurst was to disclose himself, and tell me all! What is to be done? Hark! (DIEGO, without, singing.)

 
    "Oh, here's your aguardiente,
         Drink it down!"
 

Jovita. It is Diego; and, Mother of God! drunk again!

Enter SANDY, carrying pack, intoxicated; staggers to centre, and, observing JOVITA, takes off his hat respectfully.

Jovita (shaking him by the shoulders passionately). Diego! How dare you! And at such a time!

Sandy (with drunken solemnity). Miss Jovita, did ye ever know me to be drunk afore at such a time?

Jovita. No.

Sandy. Zachy so. It's abnormal. And it means—the game's up.

Jovita. I do not understand. For the love of God, Diego, be plain!

Sandy (solemnly and drunkenly). When I say your game's up, I mean the old man knows it all. You're blowed upon. Hearken, miss. (Seriously and soberly.) Your father knows all that I know; but, as it wasn't my business to interfere with, I hev sorter helped along. He knows that you meet a stranger, an American, in these rides with me.

Jovita (passionately). Ingrate! You have not dared to tell him! (Seizing him by the collar, and threatening him with the horsewhip.)

Sandy (rising with half-drunken, half-sober solemnity). One minit, miss! one minit! Don't ye! don't ye do that! Ef ye forget (and I don't blame ye for it), ef ye forget that I'm a man, don't ye, don't ye forget that you're a woman! Sit ye down, sit ye down, so! Now, ef ye'll kindly remember, miss, I never saw this yer man, yer lover. Ef ye'll recollect, miss, whenever you met him, I allers hung back and waited round in the mission or in the fields beyond for ye, and allowed ye to hev your own way, it bein' no business o' mine. Thar isn't a man on the ranch, who, ef he'd had a mind to watch ye, wouldn't hev known more about yer lover than I do.

Jovita (aside). He speaks truly. He always kept in the background. Even Don Juan never knew that I had an attendant until I told him. (Aloud.) I made a mistake, Diego. I was hasty. What am I to do? He is waiting for me even now.

Sandy. Well (with drunken gravity), ef ye can't go to him, I reckon it's the squar thing for him to come to ye.

Jovita. Recollect yourself, Diego. Be a man!

Sandy. Fash jus war I say. Let him be a man, and come to ye here. Let him ride up to this ranch like a man, and call out to yer father that he'll take ye jist as ye are, without the land. And if the old man allows, rather than hev ye marry that stranger, he'll give this yer place to the church, why, let him do it, and be damned.

Jovita (recoiling, aside). So! That is their plan. Don Jose has worked on the fears or the cupidity of this drunken ingrate.

Sandy (with drunken submission). Ye was speaking to me, miss. Ef ye'll take my advice,—a drunken man's advice, miss,—ye'll say to that lover of yours, ef he's afeard to come for ye here, to take ye as ye stand, he ain't no man for ye. And, ontil he does, ye'll do as the ole man says. Fur ef I do say it, miss,—and thar ain't no love lost between us,—he's a good father to ye. It ain't every day that a gal kin afford to swap a father like that, as she DOES KNOW, fur the husband that she DON'T! He's a proud old fool, miss; but to ye, to ye, he's clar grit all through.

Jovita (passionately, aside). Tricked, fooled, like a child! and through the means of this treacherous, drunken tool. (Stamping her foot.) Ah! we shall see! You are wise, you are wise, Don Jose; but your daughter is not a novice, nor a helpless creature of the Holy Church. (Passionately.) I'll—I'll become a Protestant to-morrow!

Sandy (unheeding her passion, and becoming more earnest and self-possessed). Ef ye hed a father, miss, ez instead o' harkinin' to your slightest wish, and surroundin' ye with luxury, hed made your infancy a struggle for life among strangers, and your childhood a disgrace and a temptation; ef he had left ye with no company but want, with no companions but guilt, with no mother but suffering; ef he had made your home, this home, so unhappy, so vile, so terrible, so awful, that the crowded streets and gutters of a great city was something to fly to for relief; ef he had made his presence, his very name,—your name, miss, allowin' it was your father,—ef he had made that presence so hateful, that name so infamous, that exile, that flyin' to furrin' parts, that wanderin' among strange folks ez didn't know ye, was the only way to make life endurable; and ef he'd given ye,—I mean this good old man Don Jose, miss,—ef he'd given ye as part of yer heritage a taint, a weakness in yer very blood, a fondness for a poison, a poison that soothed ye like a vampire bat and sucked yer life-blood (seizing her arm) ez it soothed ye; ef this curse that hung over ye dragged ye down day by day, till hating him, loathing him, ye saw yerself day by day becoming more and more like him, till ye knew that his fate was yours, and yours his,—why then, Miss Jovita (rising with an hysterical, drunken laugh), why then, I'd run away with ye myself,—I would, damn me!

Jovita (who has been withdrawing from him scornfully). Well acted, Diego. Don Jose should have seen his pupil. Trust me, my father will reward you. (Aside.) And yet there were tears in his drunken eyes. Bah! it is the liquor: he is no longer sane. And, either hypocrite or imbecile, he is to be trusted no longer. But where and why is he going? (Aloud.) You are leaving us, Diego.

Sandy (quietly). Well, the old man and me don't get on together.

Jovita (scornfully). Bueno! I see. Then you abandon me.

Sandy (quickly). To the old man, miss,—not the young one. (Walks to the table, and begins to pour out liquor.)

Jovita (angrily). You would not dare to talk to me thus if John Oakhurst—ah! (Checking herself.)

Sandy (drops glass on table, hurries to centre, and seizes DONA JOVITA). Eh! Wot name did you say? (Looks at her amazed and bewildered.)

Jovita (terrified, aside). Mother of God! What have I done? Broken my sacred pledge to keep his name secret. No! No! Diego did not hear me! Surely this wretched drunkard does not know him. (Aloud.) Nothing. I said nothing: I mentioned no name.

Sandy (still amazed, frightened, and bewildered, passing his hand over his forehead slowly). Ye mentioned no name? Surely. I am wild, crazed. Tell me, miss—ye didn't,—I know ye didn't, but I thought it sounded like it,—ye didn't mention the name of—of—of—John Oakhurst?

Jovita (hurriedly). No, of course not! You terrify me, Diego. You are wild.

Sandy (dropping her hand with a sigh of relief). No, no! In course ye didn't. I was wild, miss, wild; this drink has confused me yer. (Pointing to his head.) There are times when I hear that name, miss,—times when I see his face. (Sadly.) But it's when I've took too much—too much. I'll drink no more—no more!—to-night—to-night! (Drops his head slowly in his hands.)

Jovita (looking at DIEGO—aside). Really, I'm feeling very uncomfortable. I'd like to ask a question of this maniac. But nonsense! Don Juan gave me to understand Oakhurst wasn't his real name; that is, he intimated there was something dreadful and mysterious about it that mustn't be told,—something that would frighten people. HOLY VIRGIN! it has! Why, this reckless vagabond here is pale and agitated. Don Juan shall explain this mystery to-night. But then, how shall I see him? Ah, I have it. The night of the last festa, when I could not leave the rancho, he begged me to show a light from the flat roof of the upper corridor, that he might know I was thinking of him,—dear fellow! He will linger to-night at the Mission; he will see the light; he will know that I have not forgotten. He will approach the rancho; I shall manage to slip away at midnight to the ruined Mission. I shall—ah, it is my father! Holy Virgin, befriend me now with self-possession. (Stands quietly at L., looking toward SANDY, who still remains buried in thought, as)—

Enter DON JOSE; regards his daughter and DIEGO with a sarcastic smile.

Don Jose (aside). Bueno! It is as I expected,—an explanation, an explosion, a lover's quarrel, an end to romance. From his looks I should say she has been teaching the adventurer a lesson. Good! I could embrace her. (Crosses to SANDY—aloud.) You still here!

Sandy (rising with a start). Yes! I—a—I was only taking leave of Miss Jovita that hez bin kind to me. She's a good gal, ole man, and won't be any the worse when I'm gone.—Good-by, Miss Jovita (extending his hand): I wish ye luck.

Jovita (coldly). Adios, friend Diego. (Aside, hurriedly.) You will not expose my secret?

Sandy (aside). It ain't in me, miss. (To DON JOSE, going.) Adios, ole man. (Shouldering his pack.)

Don Jose. Adios, friend Diego. (Formally.) May good luck attend you! (Aside.) You understand, on your word as—as—as—A GENTLEMAN!—you have no further communication with this rancho, or aught that it contains.

Sandy (gravely). I hear ye, ole man. Adios. (Goes to gateway, but pauses at table, and begins to fill a glass of aguardiente.)

Don Jose (aside, looking at his daughter). I could embrace her now. She is truly a Castro. (Aloud to JOVITA.) Hark ye, little one! I have news that will please you, and—who knows? perhaps break up the monotony of the dull life of the rancho. To-night come to me two famous caballeros, Americanos, you understand: they will be here soon, even now. Retire, and make ready to receive them. [Exit JOVITA.

Don Jose (aside, looking at SANDY). He lingers. I shall not be satisfied until Concho has seen him safely beyond the Mission wall.

Enter CONCHO.

Concho. Two caballeros have dismounted in the corral, and seek the honor of Don Jose's presence.

Don Jose. Bueno! (Aside.) Follow that fellow beyond the Mission. (Aloud.) Admit the strangers. Did they give their names?

Concho. They did, Don Jose,—Col. Culpepper Starbottle and the Don Alexandro Morton.

Sandy (dropping glass of aguardiente, and staggering stupidly to the centre, confronting DON JOSE and CONCHO, still holding bottle). Eh! Wot? Wot name did you say? (Looks stupidly and amazedly at CONCHO and DON JOSE, and then slowly passes his hand over his forehead. Then slowly and apologetically.) I axes your pardon, Don Jose, and yours, sir (to CONCHO), but I thought ye called me. No!—that ez—I mean—I mean—I'm a little off color here (pointing to his head). I don't follow suit—I—eh—eh! Oh!—ye'll pardon me, sir, but thar's names—perhaps yer darter will remember that I was took a bit ago on a name—thar's names sorter hangin' round me yer (pointing to his head), that I thinks I hear—but bein' drunk—I hopes ye'll excoos me. Adios. (Staggers to gateway, CONCHO following.)

Concho (aside). There is something more in this than Don Jose would have known. I'll watch Diego, and keep an eye on Miss Jovita too.

Exit, following SANDY, who, in exit, jostles against COL. STARBOTTLE entering, who stops and leans exhaustedly at the wall to get his breath; following him closely, and oblivious of SANDY MORTON, ALEXANDER MORTON, sen. Enter COL. STARBOTTLE and ALEXANDER MORTON, sen.

SCENE 2.—The Same.

Col. Starbottle (entering, to DON JOSE). Overlooking the insult of—er—inebriated individual, whose menial position in this—er—er—household precludes a demand for personal satisfaction, sir, I believe I have the honor of addressing Don Jose Castro. Very good, sir. Permit me, sir, to introduce myself as Col. Culpepper Starbottle—demn me! the legal adviser of Mr. Alexander Morton, sen., and I may add, sir, the friend of that gentleman, and as such, sir—er—er—personally—personally responsible.

Alexander Morton (puritanically and lugubriously). As a God-fearing man and forgiving Christian, Mr. Castro, I trust you will overlook the habitual profanity of the erring but well-meaning man, who, by the necessities of my situation, accompanies me. I am the person—a helpless sinner—mentioned in the letters which I believe have preceded me. As a professing member of the Cumberland Presbyterian Church, I have ventured, in the interest of works rather than faith, to overlook the plain doctrines of the church in claiming sympathy of a superstitious Papist.

Starbottle (interrupting, aside to ALEXANDER MORTON). Ahem! ahem! (Aloud to DON JOSE.) My friend's manner, sir, reminds me of—er—er—Ram Bootgum Sing, first secretary of Turkish legation at Washington in '45; most remarkable man—demn me—most remarkable—and warm personal friend. Challenged Tod Robinson for putting him next to Hebrew banker at dinner, with remark—demn me—that they were both believers in the profit! he, he! Amusing, perhaps; irreverent, certainly. Fought with cimeters. Second pass, Ram divided Tod in two pieces—fact, sir—just here (pointing) in—er—er—regions of moral emotions. Upper half called to me,—said to me warningly—last words—never forget it,—"Star,"—always called me Star,—"Respect man's religious convictions." Legs dead; emotion confined to upper part of body—pathetic picture. Ged, sir, something to be remembered!

Don Jose (with grave Spanish courtesy). You are welcome, gentlemen, to the rancho of the Blessed Fisherman. Your letters, with their honorable report, are here. Believe me, senores, in your modesty you have forgotten to mention your strongest claim to the hospitality of my house,—the royal right of strangers.

Morton. Angels before this have been entertained as strangers, says the Good Book; and that, I take it, is your authority for this ceremoniousness which else were but lip-service and Papist airs. But I am here in the performance of a duty, Mr. Castro,—the duty of a Christian father. I am seeking a prodigal son. I am seeking him in his wine-husks and among his harl—

Starbottle (interrupting). A single moment. (To DON JOSE.) Permit me to—er—er—explain. As my friend Mr. Morton states, we are, in fact, at present engaged in—er—er—quest—er—pilgrimage that possibly to some, unless deterred by considerations of responsibility—personal responsibility—sir—Ged, sir, might be looked upon as visionary, enthusiastic, sentimental, fanatical. We are seeking a son, or, as my friend tersely and scripturally expresses it—er—er—prodigal son. I say scripturally, sir, and tersely, but not, you understand it, literally, nor I may add, sir, legally. Ged, sir, as a precedent, I admit we are wrong. To the best of my knowledge, sir, the—er—Prodigal Son sought his own father. To be frank, sir,—and Ged, sir, if Culpepper Starbottle has a fault, it is frankness, sir. As Nelse Buckthorne said to me in Nashville, in '47, "You would infer, Col. Starbottle, that I equivocate." I replied, "I do, sir; and permit me to add that equivocation has all the guilt of a lie, with cowardice superadded." The next morning at nine o'clock, Ged, sir, he gasped to me—he was lying on the ground, hole through his left lung just here (illustrating with DON JOSE'S coat),—he gasped, "If you have a merit, Star, above others, it is frankness!" his last words, sir,—demn me.... To be frank, sir, years ago, in the wild exuberance of youth, the son of this gentleman left his—er—er—er—boyhood's home, owing to an innocent but natural misunderstanding with the legal protector of his youth—

Morton (interrupting gravely and demurely). Driven from home by my own sinful and then unregenerate hand—

Starbottle (quickly). One moment, a simple moment. We will not weary you with—er—er—history, or the vagaries of youth. He—er—came to California in '49. A year ago, touched by—er—er—parental emotion and solicitude, my friend resolved to seek him here. Believing that the—er—er—lawlessness of—er—er—untrammelled youth and boyish inexperience might have led him into some trifling indiscretion, we have sought him successively in hospitals, alms-houses, reformatories, State's prisons, lunatic and inebriate asylums, and—er—er—even on the monumental inscriptions of the—er—er—country churchyards. We have thus far, I grieve to say, although acquiring much and valuable information of a varied character and interest, as far as the direct matter of our search,—we have been, I think I may say, unsuccessful. Our search has been attended with the—er—disbursement of some capital under my—er—er—direction, which, though large, represents quite inadequately the—er—er—earnestness of our endeavors.

ACT II

SCENE 1.—Red Gulch. Canyon of river, and distant view of Sierras, snow-ravined. Schoolhouse of logs in right middle distance. Ledge of rocks in centre. On steps of schoolhouse two large bunches of flowers. Enter STARBOTTLE, slowly climbing rocks L., panting and exhausted. Seats himself on rock, foreground, and wipes his face with his pocket-handkerchief.

Starbottle. This is evidently the er—locality. Here are the—er—groves of Academus—the heights of er—Ida! I should say that the unwillingness which the—er—divine Shakespeare points out in the—er—"whining schoolboy" is intensified in—er—climbing this height, and the—er—alacrity of his departure must be in exact ratio to his gravitation. Good idea. Ged! say it to schoolma'am. Wonder what she's like? Humph! the usual thin, weazened, hatchet-faced Yankee spinster, with an indecent familiarity with Webster's Dictionary! And this is the woman, Star, you're expected to discover, and bring back to affluence and plenty. This is the new fanaticism of Mr. Alexander Morton, sen. Ged! not satisfied with dragging his prodigal son out of merited obscurity, this miserable old lunatic commissions ME to hunt up another of his abused relatives; some forty-fifth cousin, whose mother he had frozen, beaten, or starved to death! And all this to please his prodigal! Ged! if that prodigal hadn't presented himself that morning, I'd have picked up—er—some—er—reduced gentleman—Ged, that knew how to spend the old man's money to better advantage. (Musing.) If this schoolmistress were barely good-looking, Star,—and she's sure to have fifty thousand from the old man,—Ged, you might get even with Alexander, sen., for betrothing his prodigal to Dona Jovita, in spite of the—er—evident preference that the girl showed for you. Capital idea! If she's not positively hideous I'll do it! Ged! I'll reconnoitre first! (Musing.) I could stand one eye; yes—er—single eye would not be positively objectionable in the—er—present experiments of science toward the—er—the substitution of glass. Red hair, Star, is—er—Venetian,—the beauty of Giorgione. (Goes up to schoolhouse window, and looks in.) Too early! Seven empty benches; seven desks splashed with ink. The—er—rostrum of the awful Minerva empty, but—er—adorned with flowers, nosegays—demn me! And here, here on the—er—very threshold (looking down), floral tributes. The—er—conceit of these New England schoolma'ams, and their—er—evident Jesuitical influence over the young, is fraught, sir, fraught with—er—darkly political significance. Eh, Ged! there's a caricature on the blackboard. (Laughing.) Ha, ha! Absurd chalk outline of ridiculous fat person. Evidently the schoolma'am's admirer. Ged! immensely funny! Ah! boys will be boys. Like you, Star, just like you,—always up to tricks like that. A sentence scrawled below the figure seems to be—er—explanation. Hem! (Takes out eyeglass.) Let's see (reading.) "This is old"—old—er—old—demme, sir!—"Starbottle!" This is infamous. I haven't been forty-eight hours in the place, and to my certain knowledge haven't spoken to a child. Ged, sir, it's the—er—posting of a libel! The woman, the—er—female, who permits this kind of thing, should be made responsible—er—personally responsible. Eh, hush! What have we here? (Retires to ledge of rocks.)

Enter MISS MARY L., reading letter.

Miss Mary. Strange! Is it all a dream? No! here are the familiar rocks, the distant snow-peaks, the schoolhouse, the spring below. An hour ago I was the poor schoolmistress of Red Gulch, with no ambition nor hope beyond this mountain wall; and now—oh, it must be a dream! But here is the letter. Certainly this is no delusion: it is too plain, formal, business-like. (Reads.)

MY DEAR COUSIN—I address the only surviving child of my cousin Mary and her husband John Morris, both deceased. It is my duty as a Christian relative to provide you with a home—to share with you that wealth and those blessings that a kind providence has vouchsafed me. I am aware that my conduct to your father and mother, while in my sinful and unregenerate state, is no warrantee for my present promise; but my legal adviser, Col. Starbottle, who is empowered to treat with you, will assure you of the sincerity of my intention, and my legal ability to perform it. He will conduct you to my house; you will share its roof with me and my prodigal son Alexander, now by the grace of God restored, and mindful of the error of his ways. I enclose a draft for one thousand dollars: if you require more, draw upon me for the same.

Your cousin,ALEXANDER MORTON, SEN.

My mother's cousin—so! Cousin Alexander! a rich man, and reunited to the son he drove into shameful exile. Well! we will see this confidential lawyer; and until then—until then—why, we are the schoolmistress of Red Gulch, and responsible for its youthful prodigals. (Going to schoolhouse door.)

Miss Mary (stopping to examine flowers). Poor, poor Sandy! Another offering, and, as he fondly believes, unknown and anonymous! As if he were not visible in every petal and leaf! The mariposa blossom of the plain. The snowflower I longed for, from those cool snowdrifts beyond the ridge. And I really believe he was sober when he arranged them. Poor fellow! I begin to think that the dissipated portion of this community are the most interesting. Ah! some one behind the rock,—Sandy, I'll wager. No! a stranger!

Col. Starbottle (aside, and advancing). If I could make her think I left those flowers! (Aloud.) When I state that—er—I am perhaps—er—stranger—

Miss Mary (interrupting him coldly). You explain, sir, your appearance on a spot which the rude courtesy of even this rude miner's camp has preserved from intrusion.

Starbottle (slightly abashed, but recovering himself). Yes—Ged!—that is, I—er—saw you admiring—er—tribute—er—humble tribute of flowers. I am myself passionately devoted to flowers. Ged! I've spent hours—in—er—bending over the—er—graceful sunflower, in—er—plucking the timid violet from the overhanging but reluctant bough, in collecting the—er—er—fauna—I mean the—er—flora—of this—er—district.

Miss Mary (who has been regarding him intently). Permit me to leave you in uninterrupted admiration of them. (Handing him flowers.) You will have ample time in your journey down the gulch to indulge your curiosity!

Hands STARBOTTLE flowers, enters schoolhouse, and quietly closes door on STARBOTTLE as SANDY MORTON enters cautiously and sheepishly from left. SANDY stops in astonishment on observing STARBOTTLE, and remains by wing left.

Starbottle (smelling flowers, and not noticing MISS MARY'S absence). Beautiful—er—exquisite. (Looking up at closed door.) Ged! Most extraordinary disappearance! (Looks around, and discovers SANDY; examines him for a moment through his eyeglass, and then, after a pause, inflates his chest, turns his back on SANDY, and advances to schoolhouse door. SANDY comes quickly, and, as STARBOTTLE raises his cane to rap on door, seizes his arm. Both men, regarding each other fixedly, holding each other, retreat slowly and cautiously to centre. Then STARBOTTLE disengages his arm.)

Sandy (embarrassedly but determinedly). Look yer, stranger. By the rules of this camp, this place is sacred to the schoolma'am and her children.

Starbottle (with lofty severity). It is! Then—er—permit me to ask, sir, what YOU are doing here.

Sandy (embarrassed, and dropping his head in confusion). I was—passing. There is no school to-day.

Starbottle. Then, sir, Ged! permit me to—er—DEMAND—DEMAND, sir—an apology. You have laid, sir, your hand upon my person—demn me! Not the first time, sir, either; for, if I am not mistaken, you are the—er—inebriated menial, sir, who two months ago jostled me, sir,—demn me,—as I entered the rancho of my friend Don Jose Castro.

Sandy (starting, aside). Don Jose! (Aloud.) Hush, hush! She will hear you. No—that is—(stops, confused and embarrassed. Aside.) She will hear of my disgrace. He will tell her the whole story.

Starbottle. I shall await your apology one hour. At the end of that time, if it is not forthcoming, I shall—er—er—waive your menial antecedents, and expect the—er—satisfaction of a gentleman. Good-morning, sir. (Turns to schoolhouse.)

Sandy. No, no: you shall not go!

Starbottle. Who will prevent me?

Sandy (grappling him). I will. (Appealingly.) Look yer, stranger, don't provoke me, I, a desperate man, desperate and crazed with drink,—don't ye, don't ye do it! For God's sake, take your hands off me! Ye don't know what ye do. Ah! (Wildly, holding STARBOTTLE firmly, and forcing him backward to precipice beyond ledge of rocks.) Hear me. Three years ago, in a moment like this, I dragged a man—my friend—to this precipice. I—I—no! no!—don't anger me now! (Sandy's grip on STARBOTTLE relaxes slightly, and his head droops.)

Starbottle (coolly). Permit me to remark, sir, that any reminiscence of your—er—friend—or any other man is—er—at this moment, irrelevant and impertinent. Permit me to point out the—er—fact, sir, that your hand is pressing heavily, demned heavily, on my shoulder.

Sandy (fiercely). You shall not go!

Starbottle (fiercely). Shall not?

Struggle. STARBOTTLE draws derringer from his breast-pocket, and SANDY seizes his arm. In this position both parties struggle to ledge of rocks, and COL. STARBOTTLE is forced partly over.

Miss Mary (opening schoolhouse door). I thought I heard voices. (Looking toward ledge of rocks, where COL. STARBOTTLE and SANDY are partly hidden by trees. Both men relax grasp of each other at MISS MARY'S voice.)

Col. Starbottle (aloud and with voice slightly raised, to SANDY). By—er—leaning over this way a moment, a single moment, you will—er—perceive the trail I speak of. It follows the canyon to the right. It will bring you to—er—the settlement in an hour. (To MISS MARY, as if observing her for the first time.) I believe I am—er—right; but, being—er—more familiar with the locality, you can direct the gentleman better.

SANDY slowly sinks on his knees beside rock, with his face averted from schoolhouse, as COL. STARBOTTLE disengages himself, and advances jauntily and gallantly to schoolhouse.

Col. Starbottle. In—er—er—showing the stranger the—er—way, I perhaps interrupted our interview. The—er—observances of—er—civility and humanity must not be foregone, even for—er—the ladies. I—er—believe I address Miss Mary Morris. When I—er—state that my name is Col. Starbottle, charged on mission of—er—delicate nature, I believe I—er—explain MY intrusion.

MISS MARY bows, and motions to schoolhouse door; COL. STARBOTTLE, bowing deeply, enters; but MISS MARY remains standing by door, looking toward trees that hide SANDY.

Miss Mary (aside). I am sure it was Sandy's voice! But why does he conceal himself?

Sandy (aside, rising slowly to his feet, with his back to schoolhouse door). Even this conceited bully overcomes me, and shames me with his readiness and tact. He was quick to spare her—a stranger—the spectacle of two angry men. I—I—must needs wrangle before her very door! Well, well! better out of her sight forever, than an object of pity or terror. [Exit slowly, and with downcast eyes, right.

Miss Mary (watching the trail). It WAS Sandy! and this concealment means something more than bashfulness. Perhaps the stranger can explain.

[Enters schoolhouse, and closes door.

SCENE 2.—The same. Enter CONCHO, lame, cautiously, from R. Pauses at R., and then beckons to HOP SING, who follows R.

Concho (impatiently). Well! you saw him?

Hop Sing. Me see him.

Concho. And you recognized him?

Hop Sing. No shabe likoquize.

Concho (furiously). You knew him, eh? Carramba! You KNEW him.

Hop Sing (slowly and sententiously). Me shabe man you callee Diego. Me shabbee Led Gulchee call Sandy. Me shabbee man Poker Flat callee Alexandlee Molton. Allee same, John! Allee same!

Concho (rubbing his hands). Bueno! Good John! good John! And you knew he was called Alexander Morton? And go on—good John—go on!

Hop Sing. Me plentee washee shirtee—Melican man Poker Flat. Me plentee washee shirt Alexandlee Molton. Always litee, litee on shirt allee time. (Pointing to tail of his blouse, and imitating writing with finger.) Alexandlee Molton. Melican man tellee me—shirt say Alexandlee Molton—shabbee?

Concho. Bueno! Excellent John. Good John. His linen marked Alexander Morton. The proofs are gathering! (crosses to C.)—the letter I found in his pack, addressed to Alexander Morton, Poker Flat, which first put me on his track; the story of his wife's infidelity, and her flight with his partner to red Gulch, the quarrel and fight that separated them, his flight to San Jose, his wanderings to the mission of San Carmel, to the rancho of the Holy Fisherman. The record is complete!

Hop Sing. Alexandlee Molton—

Concho (hurriedly returning to HOP SING). Yes! good John; yes, good John—go on. Alexander Morton—

Hop Sing. Alexandlee Molton. Me washee shirt, Alexandlee Molton; he no pay washee. Me washee flowty dozen hep—four bittie dozen—twenty dollar hep. Alexandlee Molton no payee. He say, "Go to hellee!" You pay me (extending his hand).

Concho. Car—! (checking himself). Poco tiempo, John! In good time, John. Forty dollar—yes. Fifty dollar! Tomorrow, John.

Hop Sing. Me no likee "to-mollow!" Me no likee "nex time, John!" Allee time Melican man say, "Chalkee up, John," "No smallee change, John,"—umph. Plenty foolee me!

Concho. You shall have your money, John; but go now—you comprehend. Carramba! go! (Pushes HOP SING to wing.)

Hop Sing (expostulating). Flowty dozen, hep, John! twenty dollar, John. Sabe. Flowty—twenty—(gesticulating with fingers).

[Exit HOP SING, pushed off by CONCHO.

Concho. The pagan dolt! But he is important. Ah, if he were wiser, I should not rid myself of him so quickly! And now for the schoolmistress,—the sweetheart of Sandy. If these men have not lied, he is in love with her; and, if he is, he has told her his secret before now; and she will be swift to urge him to his rights. If he has not told her—umph! (laughing) it will not be a DAY—an HOUR—before she will find out if her lover is Alexander Morton, the rich man's son, or "Sandy," the unknown vagabond. Eh, friend Sandy! It was a woman that locked up your secret: it shall be a woman, Madre di Dios! who shall unlock it. Ha! (Goes to door of schoolhouse as door opens, and appears COL. STARBOTTLE.)

Concho (aside). A thousand devils! the lawyer of the old man Morton. (Aloud.) Pardon, pardon! I am a stranger. I have lost my way on the mountain. I am seeking a trail. Senor, pardon!

Starbottle (aside). Another man seeking the road! Ged, I believe he's lying too. (Aloud.) It is before you, sir, DOWN,—down the mountain.

Concho. A thousand thanks, senor. (Aside.) Perdition catch him! (Aloud.) Thanks, senor. [Exit R.

Starbottle. Ged, I've seen that face before. Ged, it's Castro's major-domo. Demn me, but I believe all his domestics have fallen in love with the pretty schoolma'am.

Enter MISS MARY from schoolhouse.

Miss Mary (slowly refolding letter). You are aware, then, of the contents of this note; and you are the friend of Alexander Morton, sen.?

Col. Starbottle. Permit me a moment, a single moment, to—er—er—explain. I am Mr. Morton's legal adviser. There is—er—sense of—er—responsibility,—er—personal responsibility, about the term "friend," that at the—er—er—present moment I am not—er—prepared to assume. The substance of the letter is before you. I am here to—er—express its spirit. I am here (with great gallantry) to express the—er—yearnings of cousinly affection. I am aware—er—that OUR conduct,—if I may use the—er—the plural of advocacy,—I am aware that—er—OUR conduct has not in the past years been of—er—er—exemplary character. I am aware that the—er—death of our lamented cousin, your sainted mother, was—er—hastened—I may—er—say—pre—cip—itated—by our—er—indiscretion But we are hereto—er—confess judgment—with—er—er—costs.

Miss Mary (interrupting). In other words, your client, my cousin, having ruined my father, having turned his own widowed relation out of doors, and sent me, her daughter, among strangers to earn her bread; having seen my mother sink and die in her struggle to keep her family from want,—this man now seeks to condone his offences—pardon me, sir, if I use your own legal phraseology—by offering me a home; by giving me part of his ill-gotten wealth, the association of his own hypocritical self, and the company of his shameless, profligate son—

Starbottle (interrupting). A moment, Miss Morris,—a single moment! The epithets you have used, the—er—vigorous characterization of our—er—conduct, is—er—within the—er—strict rules of legal advocacy, correct. We are—er—rascals! we are—er—scoundrels! we are—er—well, I am not—er—prepared to say that we are not—er—demn me—hypocrites! But the young man you speak of—our son, whose past life (speaking as Col. Starbottle) no one more sincerely deprecates than myself,—that young man has reformed; has been for the past few months a miracle of sobriety, decorum, and industry; has taken, thanks to the example of—er—friends, a position of integrity in his father's business, of filial obedience in his father's household; is, in short, a paragon; and, demn me, I doubt if he's his father's son.

Miss Mary. Enough, sir! You are waiting for my answer. There is no reason why it should not be as precise, as brief, and as formal as your message. Go to my cousin; say that you saw the person he claims as his relation; say that you found her, a poor schoolmistress, in a rude mining camp, dependent for her bread on the scant earnings of already impoverished men, dependent for her honor on the rude chivalry of outcasts and vagabonds; and say that then and there she repudiated your kinship, and respectfully declined your invitation.

Starbottle (aside). Ged! Star! this is the—er—female of your species! This is the woman—the—er—one woman—for whom you are responsible, sir!—personally responsible!

Miss Mary (coldly). You have my answer, sir.

Col. Starbottle. Permit me—er—single moment,—a single moment! Between the er—present moment, and that of my departure—there is an—er—interval of twelve hours. May I, at the close of that interval—again present myself—without prejudice, for your final answer?

Miss Mary (indifferently). As you will, sir. I shall be here.

Col. Starbottle. Permit me. (Takes her hand gallantly.) Your conduct and manner, Miss Morris, remind me—er—singularly—of—er beautiful creature—one of the—er—first families. (Observing MISS MARY regarding him amusedly, becomes embarrassed.) That is—er—I mean—er—er—good morning, Miss Morris! (Passes by schoolhouse door, retreating and bowing, and picks up flowers from door-step.) Good morning!

Miss Mary. Excuse me, Col. Starbottle (with winning politeness), but I fear I must rob you of those flowers. I recognize them now as the offering of one of my pupils. I fear I must revoke my gift (taking flowers from astonished colonel's hand), all except a single one for your buttonhole. Have you any choice, or shall I (archly) choose for you? Then it shall be this. (Begins to place flowers in buttonhole, COL. STARBOTTLE exhibiting extravagant gratitude in dumb show. Business prolonged through MISS MARY's speech.) If I am not wrong, colonel, the gentleman to whom you so kindly pointed out the road this morning was not a stranger to you. Ah! I am right. There, one moment,—a sprig of green, a single leaf, would set off the pink nicely. Here he is known only as "Sandy": you know the absurd habits of this camp. Of course he has another name. There! (releasing the colonel) it is much prettier now.

Col. Starbottle. Ged, madam! The rarest exotic—the Victoria Regina—is not as—er—graceful—er—tribute!

Miss Mary. And yet you refuse to satisfy my curiosity?

Col. Starbottle (with great embarrassment, which at last resolves itself into increased dignity of manner). What you ask is—er—er—impossible! You are right: the—er—gentleman you allude to is known to me under—er—er—another name. But honor—Miss Morris, honor!—seals the lips of Col. Starbottle. (Aside.) If she should know he was a menial! No. The position of the man you have challenged, Star, must be equal to your own. (Aloud.) Anything, Miss Morris, but—er—that!

Miss Mary (smiling). Be it so. Adios, Col. Starbottle.

Col. Starbottle (gallantly). Au revoir, Miss Morris. [Exit, impressively, L.

Miss Mary. So! Sandy conceals another name, which he withholds from Red Gulch. Well! Pshaw! What is that to me? The camp is made up of refugees,—men who perhaps have good reason to hide a name that may be infamous, the name that would publish a crime. Nonsense! Crime and Sandy! No, shame and guilt do not hide themselves in those honest but occasionally somewhat bloodshot eyes. Besides, goodness knows! the poor fellow's weakness is palpable enough. No, that is not the reason. It is no guilt that keeps his name hidden,—at least, not his. (Seating herself, and arranging flowers in her lap.) Poor Sandy! he must have climbed the eastern summit to get this. See, the rosy sunrise still lingers in its very petals; the dew is fresh upon it. Dear little mountain baby! I really believe that fellow got up before daylight, to climb that giddy height and secure its virgin freshness. And to think, in a moment of spite, I'd have given it to that bombastic warrior! (Pause.) That was a fine offer you refused just now, Miss Mary. Think of it: a home of luxury, a position of assured respect and homage; the life I once led, with all its difficulties smoothed away, its uncertainty dispelled,—think of it! My poor mother's dream fulfilled,—I, her daughter, the mistress of affluence, the queen of social power! What a temptation! Ah, Miss Mary, WAS it a temptation? Was there nothing in your free life here that stiffened your courage, that steeled the adamant of your refusal? or was it only the memory of your mother's wrongs? Luxury and wealth! Could you command a dwelling more charming than this? Position and respect! Is not the awful admiration of these lawless men more fascinating than the perilous flattery of gentlemen like Col. Starbottle? is not the devotion of these outcasts more complimentary than the lip-service of perfumed gallantry? (Pause.) It's very odd he doesn't come. I wonder if that conceited old fool said anything to him. (Rises, and then seats herself, smiling.) He HAS COME. He is dodging in and out of the manganita bushes below the spring. I suppose he imagines my visitor still here. The bashful fool! If anybody should see him, it would be enough to make a petty scandal! I'll give him a talking-to. (Pause.) I wonder if the ridiculous fool has gone to sleep in those bushes. (Rises.) Well, let him: it will help him to recover his senses from last night's dissipation; and you, Miss Mary, it is high time you were preparing the lessons for to-morrow. (Goes to schoolhouse, enters door, and slams it behind her; after a moment reappears with empty bucket.) Of course there's no water, and I am dying of thirst. (Goes slowly to left, and pauses embarrassedly and bashfully, presently laughs,—then suddenly frowns, and assumes an appearance of indignation.) Miss Mary Morris, have you become such an egregious fool that you dare not satisfy the ordinary cravings of human nature, just because an idle, dissipated, bashful blockhead—nonsense! [Exit, brandishing pail.

SCENE 3.—The Same.

(A pause. SANDY'S voice, without.) This way, miss: the trail is easier.

(MISS MARY'S voice, without.) Never mind me; look after the bucket.

Enter SANDY, carrying bucket with water, followed by MISS MARY. SANDY sets bucket down.

Miss Mary. There, you've spilt half of it. If it had been whiskey, you'd have been more careful.

Sandy (submissively). Yes, miss.

Miss Mary (aside). "Yes, miss!" The man will drive me crazy with his saccharine imbecility. (Aloud.) I believe you would assent to anything, even if I said you were—an impostor!

Sandy (amazedly). An impostor, Miss Mary?

Miss Mary. Well, I don't know what other term you use in Red Gulch to express a man who conceals his real name under another.

Sandy (embarrassed, but facing MISS MARY). Has anybody been tellin' ye I was an impostor, miss? Has thet derned old fool that I saw ye with—

Miss Mary. "That old fool," as you call him, was too honorable a gentleman to disclose your secret, and too loyal a friend to traduce you by an epithet. Fear nothing, Mr. "Sandy": if you have limited your confidence to ONE friend, it has not been misplaced. But, dear me, don't think I wish to penetrate your secret. No. The little I learned was accidental. Besides, his business was with me: perhaps, as his friend, you already know it.

Sandy (meekly). Perhaps, miss, he was too honorable a gentleman to disclose YOUR secret. His business was with me.

Miss Mary (aside). He has taken a leaf out of my book! He is not so stupid, after all. (Aloud.) I have no secret. Col. Starbottle came here to make me an offer.

Sandy (recoiling). An offer!

Miss Mary. Of a home and independence. (Aside.) Poor fellow! how pale he looks! (Aloud.) Well, you see, I am more trustful than you. I will tell you MY secret; and you shall aid me with your counsel. (They sit on ledge of rocks.) Listen! My mother had a cousin once,—a cousin cruel, cowardly, selfish, and dissolute. She loved him, as women are apt to love such men,—loved him so that she beguiled her own husband to trust his fortunes in the hands of this wretched profligate. The husband was ruined, disgraced. The wife sought her cousin for help for her necessities. He met her with insult, and proposed that she should fly with him.

Sandy. One moment, miss: it wasn't his pardner—his pardner's wife—eh?

Miss Mary (impatiently). It was the helpless wife of his own blood, I tell you. The husband died broken-hearted. The wife, my mother, struggled in poverty, under the shadow of a proud name, to give me an education, and died while I was still a girl. To-day this cousin,—this more than murderer of my parents,—old, rich, self-satisfied, REFORMED, invites me, by virtue of that kinship he violated and despised, to his home, his wealth, his—his family roof-tree! The man you saw was his agent.

Sandy. And you—

Miss Mary. Refused.

Sandy (passing his hand over his forehead). You did wrong, Miss Mary.

Miss Mary. Wrong, sir? (Rising.)

Sandy (humbly but firmly). Sit ye down, Miss Mary. It ain't for ye to throw your bright young life away yer in this place. It ain't for such as ye to soil your fair young hands by raking in the ashes to stir up the dead embers of a family wrong. It ain't for ye—ye'll pardon me, Miss Mary, for sayin' it—it ain't for ye to allow when it's TOO LATE fur a man to reform, or to go back of his reformation. Don't ye do it, miss, fur God's sake,—don't ye do it! Harkin, Miss Mary. If ye'll take my advice—a fool's advice, maybe—ye'll go. And when I tell ye that that advice, if ye take it, will take the sunshine out of these hills, the color off them trees, the freshness outer them flowers, the heart's-blood outer me,—ye'll know that I ain't thinkin' o' myself, but of ye. And I wouldn't say this much to ye, Miss Mary; but you're goin' away. There's a flower, miss, you're wearin' in your bosom,—a flower I picked at daybreak this morning, five miles away in the snow. The wind was blowing chill around it, so that my hands that dug for it were stiff and cold; but the roots were warm, Miss Mary, as they are now in your bosom. Ye'll keep that flower, Miss Mary, in remembrance of my love for ye, that kept warm and blossomed through the snow. And, don't start, Miss Mary,—for ye'll leave behind ye, as I did, the snow and rocks through which it bloomed. I axes your parding, miss: I'm hurtin' yer feelin's, sure.

Miss Mary (rising with agitation). Nothing,—nothing; but climbing these stupid rocks has made me giddy: that's all. Your arm. (To SANDY impatiently). Can't you give me your arm? (SANDY supports MISS MARY awkwardly toward schoolhouse. At door MISS MARY pauses.) But if reformation is so easy, so acceptable, why have you not profited by it? Why have you not reformed? Why have I found you here, a disgraced, dissipated, anonymous outcast, whom an honest girl dare not know? Why do you presume to preach to me? Have you a father?

Sandy. Hush, Miss Mary, hush! I had a father. Harkin. All that you have suffered from a kinship even so far removed, I have known from the hands of one who should have protected me. MY father was—but no matter. You, Miss Mary, came out of your trials like gold from the washing. I was only the dirt and gravel to be thrown away. It is too late, Miss Mary, too late. My father has never sought me, would turn me from his doors had I sought him. Perhaps he is only right.

Miss Mary. But why should he be so different from others? Listen. This very cousin whose offer I refused had a son,—wild, wayward, by all report the most degraded of men. It was part of my cousin's reformation to save this son, and, if it were possible, snatch him from that terrible fate which seemed to be his only inheritance.

Sandy (eagerly). Yes, miss.

Miss Mary. To restore him to a regenerated home. With this idea he followed his prodigal to California. I, you understand, was only an after-thought consequent upon his success. He came to California upon this pilgrimage two years ago. He had no recollection, so they tell me, by which he could recognize this erring son; and at first his search was wild, profitless, and almost hopeless. But by degrees, and with a persistency that seemed to increase with his hopelessness, he was rewarded by finding some clew to him at—at—at—

Sandy (excitedly). At Poker Flat?

Miss Mary. Ah, perhaps you know the story,—at Poker Flat. He traced him to the Mission of San Carmel.

Sandy. Yes, miss: go on.

Miss Mary. He was more successful than he deserved, perhaps. He found him. I see you know the story.

Sandy. Found him! Found him! Miss, did you say found him?

Miss Mary. Yes, found him. And today Alexander Morton, the reclaimed prodigal, is part of the household I am invited to join. So you see, Mr. Sandy, there is still hope. What has happened to him is only a promise to you. Eh! Mr. Sandy—what is the matter? Are you ill? Your exertion this morning, perhaps. Speak to me! Gracious heavens, he is going mad! No! No! Yes—it cannot be—it is—he HAS broken his promise: he is drunk again.

Sandy (rising, excited and confused). Excuse me, miss, I am a little onsartain HERE (pointing to his head). I can't—I disremember—what you said jus' now: ye mentioned the name o' that prodigal that was found.

Miss Mary. Certainly: compose yourself,—my cousin's son, Alexander Morton. Listen, Sandy, you promised ME, you know, you said for MY sake you would not touch a drop. (Enter cautiously toward schoolhouse the DUCHESS, stops on observing SANDY, and hides behind rock.)

Sandy (still bewildered and incoherent). I reckon. Harkin, miss, is that thar thing (pointing towards rock where DUCHESS is concealed)—is that a tree, or—or—a woman? Is it sorter movin' this way?

Miss Mary (laying her hand on SANDY'S). Recover your senses, for Heaven's sake, Sandy,—for MY sake! It is only a tree.

Sandy (rising). Then, miss, I've broke my word with ye: I'm drunk. P'r'aps I'd better be a-goin' (looking round confusedly) till I'm sober. (Going toward L.)

Miss Mary (seizing his hand). But you'll see me again, Sandy: you'll come here—before—before—I go?

Sandy. Yes, miss,—before ye go. (Staggers stupidly toward L. Aside.) Found him! found Alexander Morton! It's a third time, Sandy, the third time: it means—it means—you're mad! (Laughs wildly, and exit L.)

Miss Mary (springing to her feet). There is a mystery behind all this, Mary Morris, that you—you—must discover. That man was NOT drunk: he HAD NOT broken his promise to me. What does it all mean? I have it. I will accept the offer of this Alexander Morton. I will tell him the story of this helpless man, this poor, poor, reckless Sandy. With the story of his own son before his eyes, he cannot but interest himself in his fate. He is rich: he will aid me in my search for Sandy's father, for Sandy's secret. At the worst, I can only follow the advice of this wretched man,—an advice so generous, so kind, so self-sacrificing. Ah—

SCENE 4.—The same. Enter the DUCHESS, showily and extravagantly dressed. Her manner at first is a mixture of alternate shyness and bravado.

The Duchess. I heerd tell that you was goin' down to 'Frisco to-morrow, for your vacation; and I couldn't let ye go till I came to thank ye for your kindness to my boy,—little Tommy.

Miss Mary (aside. Rising abstractedly, and recalling herself with an effort). I see,—a poor outcast, the mother of my anonymous pupil. (Aloud.) Tommy! a good boy,—a dear, good little boy.

Duchess. Thankee, miss, thankee. If I am his mother, thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, better boy lives than him. And, if I ain't much as says it, thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, angeler teacher than he's got. It ain't for you to be complimented by me, miss; it ain't for such as me to be comin' here in broad day to do it, either; but I come to ask a favor,—not for me, miss, but for the darling boy.

Miss Mary (aside—abstractedly). This poor, degraded creature will kill me with her wearying gratitude. Sandy will not return, of course, while she is here. (Aloud.) Go on. If I can help you or yours, be assured I will.

The Duchess. Thankee, miss. You see, thar's no one the boy has any claim on but me, and I ain't the proper person to bring him up. I did allow to send him to 'Frisco, last year; but when I heerd talk that a schoolma'am was comin' up, and you did, and he sorter tuk to ye natril from the first, I guess I did well to keep him yer. For, oh, miss, he loves ye so much; and, if you could hear him talk in his purty way, ye wouldn't refuse him anything.

Miss Mary (with fatigued politeness, and increasing impatience). I see, I see: pray go on.

The Duchess (with quiet persistency). It's natril he should take to ye, miss; for his father, when I first knowed him, miss, was a gentleman like yourself; and the boy must forget me sooner or later—and I ain't goin' to cry about THAT.

Miss Mary (impatiently). Pray tell me how I can serve you.

The Duchess. Yes, miss; you see, I came to ask you to take my Tommy,—God bless him for the sweetest, bestest boy that lives!—to take him with you. I've money plenty; and it's all yours and his. Put him in some good school, whar ye kin go and see, and sorter help him to—forget–his mother. Do with him what you like. The worst you can do will be kindness to what he would learn with me. You will: I know you will; won't you? You will make him as pure and as good as yourself; and when he has grown up, and is a gentleman, you will tell him his father's name,—the name that hasn't passed my lips for years,—the name of Alexander Morton.

Miss Mary (aside). Alexander Morton! The prodigal! Ah, I see,—the ungathered husks of his idle harvest.

The Duchess. You hesitate, Miss Mary. (Seizing her.) Do not take your hand away. You are smiling. God bless you! I know you will take my boy. Speak to me, Miss Mary.

Miss Mary (aloud). I will take your child. More than that, I will take him to his father.

The Duchess. No, no! for God's sake, no, Miss Mary! He has never seen him from his birth: he does not know him. He will disown him. He will curse him,—will curse me!

Miss Mary. Why should he? Surely his crime is worse than yours.

The Duchess. Hear me, Miss Mary. (Aside.) How can I tell her? (Aloud.) One moment, miss. I was once—ye may not believe it, miss—as good, as pure, as you. I had a husband, the father of this child. He was kind, good, easy, forgiving,—too good for me, miss, too simple and unsuspecting. He was what the world calls a fool, miss: he loved me too well,—the kind o' crime, miss,—beggin' your pardon, and all precepts to the contrairy,—the one thing that women like me never forgives. He had a pardner, miss, that governed him as HE never governed me; that held him with the stronger will, and maybe ME too. I was young, miss,—no older than yourself then; and I ran away with him,—left all, and ran away with my husband's pardner. My husband—nat'rally—took to drink. I axes your pardin', miss; but ye'll see now, allowin' your larnin', that Alexander Morton ain't the man as will take my child.

Miss Mary. Nonsense. You are wrong. He has reformed; he has been restored to his home,—your child's home, your home if you will but claim it. Do not fear: I will make that right.

Enter SANDY slowly and sheepishly, R.; stops on observing the Duchess, and stands amazed and motionless.

Miss Mary (observing SANDY—aside). He HAS returned. Poor fellow! How shall I get rid of this woman? (Aloud.) Enough. If you are sincere, I will take your child, and, God help me! bring him to his home and yours. Are you satisfied?

The Duchess. Thank ye! Thank ye, miss; but—but thar's a mistake somewhar. In course—it's natural—ye don't know the father of that child, my boy Tommy, under the name o' Alexander Morton. Ye're thinking, like as not, of another man. The man I mean lives yer, in this camp: they calls him Sandy, miss,—SANDY!

Miss Mary (after a pause, coming forward passionately). Hush! I have given you my answer, be it Alexander Morton or Sandy. Go now: bring me the child this evening at my house. I will meet you there. (Leads the DUCHESS to wing. The DUCHESS endeavors to fall at her feet.)

The Duchess. God bless you, miss!

Miss Mary (hurriedly embracing her). No more, no more—but go!

[Exit DUCHESS. MISS MARY returns hurriedly to centre, confronting SANDY.

Miss Mary (to SANDY, hurriedly and excitedly). You have heard what that woman said. I do not ask you under what alias you are known here: I only ask a single question.—Is SHE your wife? are you the father of her child?

Sandy (sinking upon his knees before her, and covering his face with his hands). I am!

Miss Mary. Enough! (Taking flower from her bosom.) Here, I give you back the flower you gave me this morning. It has faded and died here upon my breast. But I shall replace it with your foundling,—the child of that woman, born like that flower in the snow! And I go now, Sandy, and leave behind me, as you said this morning, the snow and rocks in which it bloomed. Good-by! Farewell, farewell—forever! (Goes toward schoolhouse as—)

Enter COL. STARBOTTLE.

Miss Mary (to STARBOTTLE). You are here in season, sir. You must have come for an answer to your question. You must first give me one to mine. Who is this man (pointing to SANDY), the man you met upon the rocks this morning?

Col. Starbottle. Ahem! I am—er—now fully prepared and responsible, I may say, miss—er—personally responsible, to answer that question. When you asked it this morning, the ordinary courtesy of the—er—code of honor threw a—er—cloak around the—er—antecedents of the—er—man whom I had—er—elected by a demand for personal satisfaction, to the equality of myself, an—er—gentleman! That—er—cloak is now removed. I have waited six hours for an apology or a—er—reply to my demand. I am now free to confess that the—er—person you allude to was first known by me, three months ago, as an inebriated menial,—a groom in the household of my friend Don Jose Castro,—by the—er—simple name of "Diego."

Miss Mary (slowly). I am satisfied. I accept my cousin's invitation.

[Exit slowly, supported by COL. STARBOTTLE, R.

As STARBOTTLE and MISS MARY exeunt R., CONCHO and HOP SING enter cautiously, L. SANDY slowly rises to his feet, passes his hand across his forehead, looks around toward exit of STARBOTTLE and MISS MARY.

Sandy (slowly, but with more calmness of demeanor). Gone, gone—forever! No: I am not mad, nor crazed with drink. My hands no longer tremble. There is no confusion here. (Feeling his forehead). I heard them all. It was no dream. I heard her every word. Alexander Morton, yes, they spoke of Alexander Morton. She is going to him, to my father. She is going—she, Mary, my cousin—she is going to my father. He has been seeking me—has found—ah! (Groans.) No, no, Sandy! Be patient, be calm: you are not crazy—no, no, good Sandy, good old boy! Be patient, be patient: it is coming, it is coming. Yes, I see: some one has leaped into my place; some one has leaped into the old man's arms. Some one will creep into HER heart! No! by God! No! I am Alexander Morton. Yes, yes! But how, how shall I prove it?—how? Who (CONCHO steps cautiously forward towards SANDY unobserved) will believe the vagabond, the outcast—my God!—the crazy drunkard?

Concho (advancing, and laying his hand on SANDY). I will!

Sandy (staggering back amazedly). You!

Concho. Yes,—I, I,—Concho! You know me, Diego, you know me,—Concho, the major-domo of the Blessed Innocents. Ha! You know me now. Yes, I have come to save you. I have come to make you strong. So—I have come to help you strip the Judas that has stepped into your place,—the sham prodigal that has had the fatted calf and the ring,—ah! ah!

Sandy. You? You do not know me!

Concho. Ah! you think, you think, eh? Listen: Since you left I have tracked HIM—THE IMPOSTOR, this Judas, this coyote—step by step, until his tracks crossed yours; and then I sought you out. I know all. I found a letter you had dropped; that brought me to Poker Flat. Ah, you start! I have seen those who knew you as Alexander Morton. You see! Ah, I am wise.

Sandy (aside). It is true. (Aloud.) But (suspiciously) why have you done this? You, Concho?—you were not my friend.

Concho. No, but HE is my enemy. Ah, you start! Look at me, Alexander Morton, Sandy, Diego! You knew a man, strong, active, like yourself. Eh! Look at me now! Look at me, a cripple! Eh! lame and crushed here (pointing to his leg), broken and crushed here (pointing to his heart), by him,—the impostor! Listen, Diego. The night I was sent to track you from the rancho, he—this man—struck me from the wall, dashed me to the earth, and made MY BODY, broken and bruised, a stepping-stone to leap the wall into your place, Diego,—into your father's heart,—into my master's home. They found me dead, they thought,—no, not dead, Diego! It was sad, they said,—unfortunate. They nursed me; they talked of money—eh, Diego!—money! They would have pensioned me to hush scandal—eh! I was a dog, a foreigner, a Greaser! Eh! That is why I am here. No! I love you not, Diego; you are of his race; but I hate—Mother of God!—I HATE him!

Sandy (rising to his feet, aside). Good! I begin to feel my courage return: my nerves are stronger. Courage, Sandy! (Aloud.) Be it so, Concho: there is my hand! We will help each other,—you to my birthright, I to your revenge! Hark ye! (SANDY'S manner becomes more calm and serious.) This impostor is NO craven, NO coyote. Whoever he is, he must be strong. He has most plausible evidences. We must have rigid proofs. I will go with you to Poker Flat. There is one man, if he be living, knows me better than any man who lives. He has done me wrong,—a great wrong, Concho,—but I will forgive him. I will do more,—I will ask his forgiveness. He will be a witness no man dare gainsay—my partner—God help him and forgive him as I do!—John Oakhurst.

Concho. Oakhurst your partner!

Sandy (angrily). Yes. Look ye, Concho, he has wronged me in a private way: that is MY business, not YOURS; but he was MY partner, no one shall abuse him before me.

Concho. Be it so. Then sink here! Rot here! Go back to your husks, O prodigal! wallow in the ditches of this camp, and see your birthright sold for a dram of aguardiente! Lie here, dog and coyote that you are, with your mistress under the protection of your destroyer! For I tell you—I, Concho, the cripple—that the man who struck me down, the man who stepped into your birthright, the man who to-morrow welcomes your sweetheart in his arms, who holds the custody of your child, is your partner,—John Oakhurst.

Sandy (who has been sinking under CONCHO'S words, rising convulsively to his feet). God be merciful to me a sinner! (Faints.)

Concho (standing over his prostrate body exultingly). I am right. You are wise, Concho, you are wise! You have found Alexander Morton!

Hop Sing (advancing slowly to SANDY'S side, and extending open palm). Me washee shirt flo you, flowty dozen hab. You no payee me. Me wantee twenty dollar hep. Sabe!

Curtain.

END OF ACT II.

ACT III

SCENE 1.—The bank parlor of Morton & Son, San Francisco. Room richly furnished; two square library desks, left and right. At right, safe in wall; at left, same with practicable doors. Folding door in flat C., leading to counting-room. Door in left to private room of ALEXANDER MORTON, sen.; door in right to private room of MORTON, jun. ALEXANDER MORTON, sen., discovered at desk R., opening and reading letters.

Morton, sen. (laying down letter). Well, well, the usual story; letters from all sorts of people, who have done or intend to do all sorts of things for my reclaimed prodigal. (Reads.) "Dear Sir: five years ago I loaned some money to a stranger who answers the description of your recovered son. He will remember Jim Parker,—Limping Jim, of Poker Flat. Being at present short of funds, please send twenty dollars, amount loaned, by return mail. If not convenient, five dollars will do as instalment." Pshaw! (Throws letter aside, and takes up another.) "Dear Sir: I invite your attention to enclosed circular for a proposed Home for Dissipated and Anonymous Gold-Miners. Your well-known reputation for liberality, and your late valuable experience in the reformation of your son, will naturally enlist your broadest sympathies. We enclose a draft for five thousand dollars, for your signature." We shall see! Another: "Dear Sir: the Society for the Formation of Bible Classes in the Upper Stanislaus acknowledge your recent munificent gift of five hundred dollars to the cause. Last Sabbath Brother Hawkins of Poker Flat related with touching effect the story of your prodigal to an assemblage of over two hundred miners. Owing to unusual expenses, we regret to be compelled to draw upon you for five hundred dollars more." So! (Putting down letter.) If we were given to pride and vainglory, we might well be puffed up with the fame of our works and the contagion of our example: yet I fear that, with the worldly-minded, this praise of charity to others is only the prayerful expectation of some personal application to the praiser. (Rings hand-bell.)

Enter JACKSON.

(To JACKSON.) File these letters (handing letters) with the others. There is no answer. Has young Mr. Alexander come in yet?

Jackson. He only left here an hour ago. It was steamer day yesterday: he was up all night, sir.

Old Morton (aside). True. And the night before he travelled all night, riding two hours ahead of one of our defaulting agents, and saved the bank a hundred thousand dollars. Certainly his devotion to business is unremitting. (Aloud.) Any news from Col. Starbottle?

Jackson. He left this note, sir, early this morning.

Old Morton (takes it, and reads). "I think I may say, on my own personal responsibility, that the mission is successful. Miss Morris will arrive to-night with a female attendant and child." (To JACKSON.) That is all, sir. Stop! Has any one been smoking here?

Jackson. Not to my knowledge, sir.

Old Morton. There was a flavor of stale tobacco smoke in the room this morning when I entered, and ashes on the carpet. I KNOW that young Mr. Alexander has abandoned the pernicious habit. See that it does not occur again.

Jackson. Yes, sir. (Aside.) I must warn Mr. Alexander that his friends must be more careful; and yet those ashes were good for a deposit of fifty thousand.

Old Morton. Is any one waiting?

Jackson. Yes, sir,—Don Jose Castro and Mr. Capper.

Old Morton. Show in the Don: the policeman can wait.

Jackson. Yes, sir. [Exit.

Old Morton (taking up STARBOTTLE'S note). "Miss Morris will arrive to-night." And yet he saw her only yesterday. This is not like her mother: no. She would never have forgiven and forgotten so quickly. Perhaps she knew not my sin and her mother's wrongs; perhaps she has—has—CHRISTIAN forgiveness (sarcastically); perhaps, like my prodigal, she will be immaculately perfect. Well, well: at least her presence will make my home less lonely. "An attendant and child." A child! Ah, if HE, my boy, my Alexander, were still a child, I might warm this cold, cold heart in his sunshine! Strange that I cannot reconstruct from this dutiful, submissive, obedient, industrious Alexander,—this redeemed outcast, this son who shares my life, my fortunes, my heart,—the foolish, wilful, thoughtless, idle boy, that once defied me. I remember (musing, with a smile) how the little rascal, ha, ha! once struck me,—STRUCK ME!—when I corrected him: ha, ha! (Rubbing his hands with amusement, and then suddenly becoming grave and lugubrious.) No, no. These are the whisperings of the flesh. Why should I find fault with him for being all that a righteous conversion demands,—all that I asked and prayed for? No, Alexander Morton: it is you, YOU, who are not yet regenerate. It is YOU who are ungrateful to Him who blessed you, to Him whose guiding hand led you to—

Enter JACKSON.

Jackson. Don Jose Castro.

Enter DON JOSE.

Don Jose. A thousand pardons, senor, for interrupting you in the hours of business; but it is—it is of business I would speak. (Looking around.)

Old Morton (to JACKSON). You can retire. (Exit JACKSON.) Be seated, Mr. Castro: I am at your service.

Don Jose. It is of your—your son—

Old Morton. Our firm is Morton & Son: in business we are one, Mr. Castro.

Don Jose. Bueno! Then to you as to him I will speak. Here is a letter I received yesterday. It has significance, importance perhaps. But, whatever it is, it is something for you, not me, to know. If I am wronged much, Don Alexandro, you, you, are wronged still more. Shall I read it? Good. (Reads.) "The man to whom you have affianced your daughter is not the son of Alexander Morton. Have a care. If I do not prove him an impostor at the end of six days, believe me one, and not your true friend and servant, Concho." In six days, Don Alexandro, the year of probation is over, and I have promised my daughter's hand to your son. (Hands letter to MORTON.)

Old Morton (ringing bell). Is that all, Mr. Castro?

Don Jose. All, Mr. Castro? Carramba! is it not enough?

Enter JACKSON.

Old Morton (to JACKSON). You have kept a record of this business during the last eighteen months. Look at this letter. (Handing letter.) Is the handwriting familiar?

Jackson (taking letter). Can't say, sir. The form is the old one.

Old Morton. How many such letters have you received?

Jackson. Four hundred and forty-one, sir. This is the four hundred and forty-second application for your son's position, sir.

Don Jose. Pardon. This is not an application: it is only information or caution.

Old Morton (to JACKSON). How many letters of information or caution have we received?

Jackson. This makes seven hundred and eighty-one, sir.

Old Morton. How, sir! (Quickly.) There were but seven hundred and seventy-nine last night.

Jackson. Beg pardon, sir! The gentleman who carried Mr. Alexander's valise from the boat was the seven hundred and eightieth.

Old Morton. Explain yourself, sir.

Jackson. He imparted to me, while receiving his stipend, the fact that he did not believe young Mr. Alexander was your son. An hour later, sir, he also imparted to me confidentially that he believed you were his father, and requested the loan of five dollars, to be repaid by you, to enable him to purchase a clean shirt, and appear before you in respectable condition. He waited for you an hour, and expressed some indignation that he had not an equal show with others to throw himself into your arms.

Don Jose (rising, aside, and uplifting his hands). Carramba! These Americanos are of the Devil! (Aloud.) Enough, Don Alexandro! Then you think this letter is only worth—

Old Morton. One moment. I can perhaps tell you exactly its market value. (To JACKSON.) Go on, sir.

Jackson. At half-past ten, sir, then being slightly under the influence of liquor, he accepted the price of a deck passage to Stockton.

Old Morton. How much was that, sir?

Jackson. Fifty cents.

Old Morton. Exactly so! There you have, sir (to DON JOSE), the market value of the information you have received. I would advise you, as a business matter, not to pay more. As a business matter, you can at any time draw upon us for the amount. (To JACKSON.) Admit Mr. Capper. [Exit JACKSON.

Don Jose (rising with dignity). This is an insult, Don Alexandro.

Old Morton. You are wrong, Mr. Castro: it is BUSINESS; sought, I believe, by yourself. Now that it is transacted, I beg you to dine with me to-morrow to meet my niece. No offence, sir, no offence. Come, come! Business, you know, business.

Don Jose (relaxing). Be it so! I will come. (Aside.) These Americanos, these Americanos, are of the Devil! (Aloud.) Adios. (Going.) I hear, by report, that you have met with the misfortune of a serious loss by robbery?

Old Morton (aside). So our mishap is known everywhere. (Aloud.) No serious misfortune, Mr. Castro, even if we do not recover the money. Adios.

[Exit Don Jose.

Old Morton. The stiff-necked Papist! That he should dare, for the sake of his black-browed, froward daughter, to—question the faith on which I have pinned my future! Well, with God's blessing, I gave him some wholesome discipline. If it were not for my covenant with Alexander—and nobly he has fulfilled his part,—I should forbid his alliance with the blood of this spying Jesuit.

Enter Mr. JACKSON, leading in CAPPER.

Jackson. Policeman, sir. [Exit.

Capper (turning sharply). Who's that man?

Old Morton. Jackson, clerk.

Capper. Umph! Been here long?

Old Morton. A year. He was appointed by my son.

Capper. Know anything of his previous life?

Old Morton (stiffly). I have already told you he is an appointee of my son's.

Capper. Yes! (Aside.) "Like master, like man." (Aloud.) Well, to business. We have worked up the robbery. We have reached two conclusions,—one, that the work was not done by professionals; the other, consequent upon this, that you can't recover the money.

Old Morton. Excuse me, sir, but I do not see the last conclusion.

Capper. Then listen. The professional thief has only one or two ways of disposing of his plunder, and these ways are always well known to us. Good! Your stolen coin has not been disposed of in the regular way, through the usual hands which we could at any time seize. Of this we are satisfied.

Old Morton. How do you know it?

Capper. In this way. The only clew we have to the identification of the missing money were two boxes of Mexican doubloons.

Old Morton (aside). Mr. Castro's special deposit! He may have reason for his interest. (Aloud.) Go on.

Capper. It is a coin rare in circulation in the interior. The night after the robbery, the dealer of a monte-table in Sacramento paid out five thousand dollars in doubloons. He declared it was taken in at the table, and could not identify the players. Of course, OF COURSE! So far, you see, you are helpless. We have only established one fact, that the robber is—is—(significantly) a gambler.

Old Morton (quietly). The regular trade of the thief seems to me to be of little importance if you cannot identify him, or recover my money. But go on, sir, go on: or is this all?

Capper (aside). The old fool is blind. That is natural. (Aloud.) It is not all. The crime will doubtless be repeated. The man who has access to your vaults, who has taken only thirty thousand dollars when he could have secured half a million,—this man, who has already gambled that thirty thousand away,—will not stop there. He will in a day or two, perhaps to-day, try to retrieve his losses out of YOUR capital. I am here to prevent it.

Old Morton (becoming interested). How?

Capper. Give me, for forty-eight hours, free access to this building. Let me conceal myself somewhere, anywhere, within these walls. Let it be without the knowledge of your clerks, even of YOUR SON!

Old Morton (proudly). Mr. Alexander Morton is absent to-day. There is no other reason why he should not be here to consent to the acts of his partner and father.

Capper (quickly). Very good. It is only to insure absolute secrecy.

Old Morton (aside). Another robbery might excite a suspicion, worse for our credit than our actual loss. There is a significant earnestness about this man, that awakens my fears. If Alexander were only here. (Aloud.) I accept. (CAPPER has been trying doors R. and L.)

Capper. What room is this? (At R.)

Old Morton. My son's: I would prefer—

Capper. And this? (At L.)

Old Morton. Mine, sir; if you choose—

Capper (locking door, and putting key in his pocket). This will do. Oblige me by making the necessary arrangements in your counting-room.

Old Morton (hesitating and aside). He is right: perhaps it is only prudence, and I am saving Alexander additional care and annoyance. [Exit.

Enter MR. SHADOW cautiously, C.

Shadow (in a lisping whisper to CAPPER). I've got the litht of the clerkth complete.

Capper (triumphantly). Put it in your pocket, Shadow. We don't care for the lackeys now: we are after the master.

Shadow. Eh! the mathter?

Capper. Yes: the master,—the young master, the reclaimed son, the reformed prodigal! ha, ha!—the young man who compensates himself for all this austere devotion to business and principle by dipping into the old man's vaults when he wants a pasear: eh, Shadow? That's the man we're after. Look here! I never took any stock in that young man's reformation. Ye don't teach old sports like him new tricks. They're a bad lot, father and son,—eh, Shadow?—and he's a chip of the old block. I spotted him before this robbery, before we were ever called in here professionally. I've had my eye on Alexander Morton, alias John Oakhurst; and, when I found the old man's doubloons raked over a monte-table at Sacramento, I knew where to look for the thief. Eh, Shadow?

Shadow (aside). He ith enormouth, thith Mithter Capper.

Enter OLD MORTON.

Old Morton. I have arranged everything. You will not be disturbed or suspected here in my private office. Eh! (Looking at SHADOW.) Who has slipped in here?

Capper. Only my Shadow, Mr. Morton; but I can rid myself even of that. (Crosses to SHADOW.) Take this card to the office, and wait for further orders. Vanish, Shadow! [Exit SHADOW.

Enter JACKSON.

Jackson. Mr. Alexander has come in, sir. (OLD MORTON and CAPPER start.)

Old Morton. Where is he?

Jackson. In his private room, sir.

Old Morton. Enough: you can go.

[Exit JACKSON.

Capper (crossing to MORTON). Remember, you have given your pledge of secrecy. Beware! Your honor, your property, the credit and reputation of your bank, are at stake.

Old Morton (after a pause of hesitation, with dignity). I gave you my word, sir, while my son was not present. I shall save myself from breaking my word with you, or concealing anything from him, by withdrawing myself. For the next twenty-four hours, this room (pointing to private room R.) is yours.

Each regards the other. Exit OLD MORTON C., as CAPPER exit in private room R. After a pause, door of room L. opens, and HARRY YORK appears, slightly intoxicated, followed by JOHN OAKHURST.

Harry York (looking around). By Jove! Morton, but you've got things in style here. And this yer's the gov'nor's desk; and here old Praise god Barebones sits opposite ye. Look yer, old boy (throwing himself in chair), I kin allow how it comes easy for ye to run this bank, for it's about as exciting, these times, as faro was to ye in '49, when I first knew ye as Jack Oakhurst; but how the Devil you can sit opposite that stiff embodiment of all the Ten Commandments, day by day, damn it! that's wot GETS me! Why, the first day I came here on business, the old man froze me so that I couldn't thaw a deposit out of my pocket. It chills me to think of it.

Oakhurst (hastily). I suppose I am accustomed to him. But come, Harry: let me warm you. (Opens door of safe L., and discovers cupboard, decanter, and glasses.)

York (laughing). By Jove! under the old man's very nose. Jack, this is like you. (Takes a drink.) Well, old boy, this is like old times. But you don't drink?

Oakhurst. No, nor smoke. The fact is, Harry, I've taken a year's pledge. I've six days still to run; after that (gloomily), why (with a reckless laugh), I shall be Jack Oakhurst again.

York. Lord! to think of your turning out to be anybody's son, Jack!—least of all, HIS! (Pointing to chair.)

ACT IV

SCENE 1.—MR. MORTON'S villa, Russian Hill, Night. OAKHURST'S bedroom. Sofa in alcove C., door in flat left of C. SANDY MORTON discovered, unconscious, lying on sofa; OAKHURST standing at his head, two policemen at his feet. Candles on table L.

Oakhurst. That will do. You are sure he was unconscious as you brought him in?

First Policeman. Sure, sir? He hasn't known anything since we picked him up on the sidewalk outside the bank.

Oakhurst. Good! You have fulfilled your orders well, and your chief shall know it. Go now. Be as cautious in going out as you were on entering. Here is the private staircase. (Opens door L.) [Exit policeman.

Oakhurst (listening). Gone! and without disturbing any one. So far, luck has befriended me. He will sleep to-night beneath his father's roof. His father! umph! would the old man recognize him here? Would he take to his heart this drunken outcast, picked from the gutters of the street, and brought here by the strong arm of the law? Hush! (A knock without.) Ah, it is the colonel: he is prompt to the hour. (Opens door cautiously, and admits COL. STARBOTTLE.)

Starbottle (looking around, and overlooking SANDY). I presume the other—er—principal is not yet on the ground?

Oakhurst (motioning to sofa). He IS!

Starbottle (starting as he looks towards sofa). Ged, you don't mean to say it's all OVER, without witnesses, without my—er—presence?

Oakhurst. Pardon me, Col. Starbottle; but, if you look again, you will perceive that the gentleman is only drunk.

Starbottle. Eh? Ged! not uncommon, sir, not uncommon! I remember singular incident at—er—Louisville in '47. Old Judge Tollim—know old Judge Tolly?—Ged! he came to ground drunk, sir; couldn't stand! Demn me, sir, had to put him into position with kitchen poker down his back, and two sections of lightning-rod in his—er—trousers, demn me! Firm, sir, firm, you understand, here (striking his breast), but—here (striking his legs)—er—er—wobbly! No, sir! Intoxication of principal not a bar, sir, to personal satisfaction! (Goes towards sofa with eyeglass.) Good Ged! why, it's Diego! (Returning stifly to OAKHURST.) Excuse me, sir, but this is a case in which I cannot act. Cannot, sir,—impossible! absurd! pre—post—or—ous! I recogmze in the—er—inebriated menial on yonder sofa a person, sir, who, having already declined my personal challenge, is—er—excluded from the consideration of gentlemen. The person who lies there, sir, is Diego,—a menial of Don Jose Castro,–alias "Sandy," the vagabond of Red Gulch.

Oakhurst. You have omitted one title, his true one. He is Alexander Morton, the son of the master of this house.

Starbottle (starting in bewilderment). Alexander Morton! (Aside.) Ged! my first suspicions were correct. Star, you have lost the opportunity of making your fortune as a scoundrel; but you have at a pecuniary sacrifice, preserved your honor.

Oakhurst. Yes. Hear me, Col. Starbottle. I have summoned you here to-night, as I have already intimated, on an affair of honor. I have sought you as my father's legal counsel, as a disinterested witness, as a gentleman of honor. The man who lies before you was once my friend and partner. I have wronged him doubly. As his partner, I ran away with the woman he believed, and still believes, to be his wife; as his friend, I have for a twelvemonth kept him from the enjoyment of his home, his patrimony, by a shameful deception. I have summoned you to-night to witness my confession; as a lawyer, to arrange those details necessary to restore to him his property; as a man of honor, to receive from me whatever retribution he demands. You will be a witness to our interview. Whatever befalls me here, you will explain to Mr. Morton—to Jovita—that I accepted it as a man, and did not avoid, here or elsewhere, the penalty of my crime. (Folding his arms.)

Slarbottle. Umph! The case is, as you say, a delicate one, but not—not—peculiar. No, sir! Ged, sir, I remember Tom Marshall—know Tom Marshall of Kentucky?—said to me, "Star!"—always calls me Star,—"how in blank, sir, can you remember the REAL names of your clients?"—"Why," says I, "Tom," always called him Tom,—"yesterday I was called to make will—most distinguished family of Virginia—as lawyer and gentleman, you understand: can't mention name. Waited for signature—most distinguished name: Ged, sir, man signed Bloggins,—Peter Bloggins. Fact, demme! 'Mistake,' I said,—'excitement; exaltation of fever. Non compos. Compose yourself, Bob.'—'Star,' he said,—always called me Star,—'for forty-seven years I have been an impostor!'—his very words, sir. 'I am not'—you understand: 'I AM Peter Bloggins!'"

Oakhurst. But, my dear colonel, I—

Starbottle (loftily). Say no more, sir! I accept the—er position. Let us see! The gentleman will, on recognition, probably make a personal attack. You are armed. Ah, no? Umph! On reflection I would not permit him to strike a single blow: I would anticipate it. It will provoke the challenge from him, leaving YOU, sir, the—er—choice of weapons.

Oakhurst. Hush! he is moving! Take your stand here, in this alcove. Remember, as a gentleman, and a man of honor, Col. Starbottle, I trust you not to interfere between the injured man and—justice! (Pushes COL. STARBOTTLE into alcove behind couch, and approaches SANDY.)

Sandy (waking slowly—and incoherently). Hush, Silky! hush! Eh? Oh, hush yourself! (Sings.)

 
     Oh, yer's yer Sandy Morton,
           Drink him down!
 

Eh! Oh! (Half sits up on couch.) Eh! (Looking around him.) Where the devil am I?

Oakhurst (advancing and leaning over SANDY'S couch). In the house of your father, Alexander Morton.

Sandy (recoiling in astonishment). His voice, John Oakhurst! What—ah! (Rises, and rushes towards OAKHURST with uplifted hand.)

Starbottle (gesticulating in whisper). A blow! a single blow would be sufficient.

Sandy (looking at OAKHURST, who regards him calmly). I—eh! I—eh! Ha, ha! I'm glad to see—old pard! I'm glad to see ye! (COL. STARBOTTLE lifts his hand in amazement.)

Oakhurst (declining his hand). Do you understand me, Sandy Morton? Listen. I am John Oakhurst,—the man who has deceived your father, who has deceived you.

Sandy (without heeding his words, but regarding him affectionately). To think of it—Jack Oakhurst! It's like him, like Jack. He was allers onsartain, the darned little cuss! Jack! Look at him, will ye, boys? look at him! Growed too, and dressed to kill, and sittin' in this yer house as natril as a jaybird! (Looking around.) Nasty, ain't it, Jack? and this yer's your house—the old man's house—eh? Why, this is—this is where she came. Jack, Jack! (Eagerly.) Tell me, pard, where is she?

Starbottle (aside, rubbing his hands). We shall have it now!

Oakhurst. She has gone,—gone! But hear me. She had deceived you as she has me. She has gone,—gone with her first husband, Henry Pritchard.

Sandy (stupefied). Gone! Her first husband! Pritchard!

Oakhurst. Ay, your wife!

Sandy. Oh, damn my wife! I'm talking of Mary,—Miss Mary,—the little schoolma'am, Jack; the little rose of Poker Flat. Oh! I see—ye didn't know her, Jack,—the pertiest, sweetest little—

Oakhurst (turning away coldly). Ay, ay! She is here!

Sandy (looking after him affectionately). Look at him, boys! Allers the same,—high-toned, cold, even to his pardner! That's him,—Jack Oakhurst! But Jack, Jack, you're goin' to shake hands, ain't ye? (Extends his hand, after a pause. OAKHURST takes it gloomily.)

Col. Starbottle (who has been regarding interview with visible scorn and disgust, advancing to OAKHURST). You will—er—pardon me if, under the—er—circumstances, I withdraw from this—er—disgraceful proceeding. The condonation, by that man, of two of the most tremendous offences to society and to the code, without apology or satisfaction, Ged, sir, is—er—er—of itself an insult to the spectator. I go, sir—

Oakhurst. But, Col. Starbottle—

Starbottle. Permit me to say, sir, that I hold myself for this, sir, responsible, sir,—personally responsible.

[Exit STARBOTTLE, glancing furiously at SANDY, who sinks on sofa laughing.

Oakhurst (aside). He will change his mind in half an hour. But, in the mean time, time is precious. (Aloud.) Sandy, come!

Sandy (rising with alacrity). Yes, Jack, I'm ready.

Oakhurst. We are going (slowly and solemnly)—we are going to see your father.

Sandy (dropping back with bashful embarrassment, and struggling to release his arm from OAKHURST). No, Jack! Not just yet, Jack; in a little while, ole boy! in about six months, or mebbe—a year, Jack! not now, not now! I ain't feelin' exactly well, Jack,—I ain't.

Oakhurst. Nonsense, Sandy! Consider your duty and my honor.

Sandy (regaining his seat). That's all very well, Jack; but ye see, pard, you've known the old man for nigh on a year, and it's twenty-five since I met him. No, Jack; you don't play any ole man on to me to-night, Jack. No, you and me'll just drop out for a pasear. Jack, eh? (Taking OAKHURST'S arm.) Come!

Oakhurst. Impossible! Hush! (Listening.) It is HE passing through the corridor. (Goes to wing R., and listens.)

Sandy (crowding hastily behind OAKHURST in alarm). But, I say, Jack! he won't come in here? He's goin' to bed, you know. Eh? It ain't right for a man o' his years—and he must be goin' on ninety, Jack—to be up like this. It ain't healthy.

Oakhurst. You know him not. He seems to need no rest (sadly). Night after night, long after the servants are abed, and the house is still, I hear that step slowly pacing the corridor. It is the last sound as I close my eyes, the first challenge of the morning.

Sandy. The ol' scound—(checking himself)—I mean, Jack, the ol' man has suthin' on his mind. But, Jack (in great alarm), he don't waltz in upon ye, Jack? He don't p'int them feet in yer, Jack? Ye ain't got to put up with that, Jack, along o' yer other trials?

Oakhurst. He often seeks me here. Ah—yes—he is coming this way now.

Sandy (in ludicrous terror). Jack, pard, quick I hide me somewhere, Jack!

Oakhurst (opening door R.). In there, quick! Not a sound, as you value your future! [Exit SANDY hurriedly R.

SCENE 2.—The same. Enter door R., OLD MORTON, in dressing-gown, with candle.

Old Morton. Not abed yet, Alexander? Well, well, I don't blame you, my son it has been for you a trying, trying night. Yes, I see: like me, you are a little nervous and wakeful. (Slowly takes chair, and comfortably composes himself.)

Oakhurst (aside). He is in for a midnight gossip. How shall I dispose of Sandy?

Old Morton. Yes (meditatively),—yes, you have overworked lately. Never mind. In a day or two more you shall have a vacation, sir,—a vacation!

Oakhurst (aside). He knows not how truly he speaks. (Aloud.) Yes, sir, I was still up. I have only just now dismissed the policemen.

Old Morton. Ay. I heard voices, and saw a light in your window. I came to tell you, Alexander, Capper has explained all about—about the decoy! More; he has told me of your courage and your invaluable assistance. For a moment, sir,—I don't mind telling you now in confidence,—I doubted YOU—

Oakhurst (in feigned deprecation). Oh, sir!

Old Morton. Only for a moment. You will find, Alexander, that even that doubt shall have full apology when the year of your probation has expired. Besides, sir. I know all.

Oakhurst (starting). All!

Old Morton. Yes, the story about the Duchess and your child. You are surprised. Col. Starbottle told me all. I forgive you, Alexander, for the sake of your boy.

Oakhurst. My boy, sir!

Old Morton. Yes, your boy. And let me tell you, sir, he's a fine young fellow. Looks like you,—looks as you did when YOU were a boy. He's a Morton too, every inch of him, there's no denying that. No, sir. You may have changed; but he—he—is the living image of my little Alexander. He took to me, too,—lifted his little arms—and—and— (Becomes affected, and leans his head in his hands.)

Oakhurst (rising). You are not well, sir. Let me lead you to your room.

Old Morton. No! it is nothing: a glass of water, Alexander!

Oakhurst (aside). He is very pale. The agitation of the night has overcome him. (Goes to table R.) A little spirits will revive him. (Pours from decanter in glass, and returns to MORTON.)

Old Morton (after drinking). There was spirits in that water, Alexander. Five years ago, I vowed at your mother's grave to abandon the use of intoxicating liquors.

Oakhurst. Believe me, sir, my mother will forgive you.

Old Morton. Doubtless. It has revived me. I am getting to be an old man, Aleck. (Holds out his glass half-unconsciously, and OAKHURST replenishes it from decanter.) Yes, an old man, Aleck; but the boy,—ah, I live again in him. The little rascal! He asked me, Aleck, for a "chaw tobacker!" and wanted to know if I was the "ol' duffer." Ha, ha! He did. Ha, ha! Come, come, don't be despondent. I was like you once, damn it,—ahem—it's all for the best, my boy, all for the best. I'll take the young rascal (aside)—damn it, he's already taken me—(aloud) on equal terms. There, Aleck, what do you say?

Oakhurst. Really, sir, this forbearance,—this kindness—(aside) I see a ray of light.

Old Morton. Nonsense! I'll take the boy, I tell you, and do well for him,—the little rascal!—as if he were the legal heir. But, I say, Aleck (laughing), ha, ha!—what about—ha, ha!—what about Dona Jovita, eh? and what about Don Jose Castro, eh? How will the lady like a ready-made family, eh? (Poking OAKHURST in the ribs.) What will the Don say to the family succession? Ha, ha!

Oakhurst (proudly). Really, sir, I care but little.

Old Morton (aside). Oh, ho! I'll sound him. (Aloud.) Look ye, Alexander, I have given my word to you and Don Jose Castro, and I'll keep it. But if you can do any better, eh—if—eh?—the schoolma'am's a mighty pretty girl and a bright one, eh, Aleck? And it's all in the family—eh? And she thinks well of you; and I will say, for a girl brought up as she's been, and knowin' your relations with the Duchess and the boy, to say a kind word for ye, Aleck, is a good sign,—you follow me, Aleck,—if you think—why, old Don Jose might whistle for a son-in-law, eh?

Oakhurst (interrupting indignantly). Sir! (Aside.) Stop! (Aloud.) Do you mean to say, sir, that if I should consent to this—suggestion—that, if the lady were willing, YOU would offer no impediment?

Old Morton. Impediment, my dear boy! you should have my blessing.

Oakhurst. Pardon me a moment. You have in the last year, sir, taught me the importance of business formality in all the relations of life. Following that idea, the conditions of my engagement with Jovita Castro were drawn up with your hand. Are you willing to make this recantation as formal, this new contract as businesslike and valid?

Old Morton (eagerly). I am.

Oakhurst. Then sit here, and write at my dictation. (Pointing to table L. OLD MORTON takes seat at table.) "In view of the evident preferences of my son Alexander Morton, and of certain family interests, I hereby revoke my consent to his marriage with the Dona Jovita Castro, and accord him full permission to woo and win his cousin, Miss Mary Morris, promising him the same aid and assistance previously offered in his suit with Miss Castro."

Old Morton (signing). Alexander Morton, sen. There, Aleck! You have forgotten one legal formality. We have no witness. Ha, ha!

Oakhurst (significantly). I will be a sufficient witness.

Old Morton. Ha, ha! (Fills glass from decanter, after which OAKHURST quietly removes decanter beyond his reach.) Very good! Aleck, I've been thinking of a plan,—I've been thinking of retiring from the bank. I'm getting old, and my ways are not the popular ways of business here. I've been thinking of you, you dog,—of leaving the bank to you,—to you, sir, eh—the day—the day you marry the schoolma'am—eh. I'll stay home and take care of the boy—eh—hic! The little rascal!—lifted his arms to me—did, Aleck! by God! (Incoherently.) Eh!

Oakhurst. Hush! (Aside.) Sandy will overhear him, and appear.

Old Morton (greatly affected by liquor.) Hush! eh!—of course—shoo! shoo! (The actor will here endeavor to reproduce in OLD MORTON'S drunken behavior, without exactly imitating him, the general characteristics of his son's intoxication.) Eh!—I say, Aleck, old boy! what will the Don say? eh? Ha, ha, ha! And Jovita, that firebrand, how will she—hic—like it, eh? (Laughs immoderately.)

Oakhurst. Hush! We will be overheard! The servants, sir!

Old Morton. Damn the servants! Don't I—hic—pay them wages—eh?

Oakhurst. Let me lead you to your own room. You are nervously excited. A little rest, sir, will do you good. (Taking his arm.)

Old Morton. No shir, no shir, 'm nerrer goin' to bed any more. Bed's bad habit!—hic—drunken habit. Lesh stay up all ni, Aleck! You and me! Lesh nev'r—go—bed any more! Whar's whiskey—eh? (Staggers to the table for decanter as OAKHURST seizes him, struggle up stage, and then OLD MORTON, in struggle, falls helplessly on sofa, in same attitude as SANDY was discovered.)

Enter SANDY cautiously from door L.

Sandy (to OAKHURST). Jack! Eh, Jack—

Oakhurst. Hush! Go! I will follow you in a moment. (Pushes him back to door L.)

Sandy (catching sight of OLD MORTON). Hallo! What's up?

Oakhurst. Nothing. He was overtaken with a sudden faintness. He will revive presently: go!

Sandy (hesitating). I say, Jack, he wasn't taken sick along o' me, eh, Jack?

Oakhurst. No! No! But go (pushing him toward door).

Sandy. Hold on: I'm going. But, Jack, I've got a kind of faintness yer, too. (Goes to side-table, and takes up decanter.) And thar's nothing reaches that faintness like whiskey. (Fills glass.) Old Morton (drunkenly and half-consciously from couch). Whiskey—who shed—whiskey—eh? Eh—O—gimme some, Aleck—Aleck, my son,—my son!—my old prodigal—Old Proddy, my boy—gimme—whiskey—(sings)—

 
     Oh, yer's yer good old whiskey,
           Drink it down!
 

Eh? I com—mand you,—pass the whiskey!

SANDY, at first panic-stricken, and then remorsefully conscious, throws glass down, with gesture of fear and loathing. OAKHURST advances to his side hurriedly.

Oakhurst (in hurried whisper). Give him the whiskey, quick! It will keep him quiet. (Is about to take decanter when SANDY seizes it: struggle with OAKHURST.)

Sandy (with feeling). No, no, Jack, no! (Suddenly with great strength and determination, breaks from him, and throws decanter from window.) No, NEVER!

Old Morton (struggling drunkenly to his feet). Eh—who sh'd never? (OAKHURST shoves SANDY in room L., and follows him, closing door.) Eh, Aleck? (Groping.) Eh, where'sh light? All gone. (Lapses on sofa again, after an ineffectual struggle to get up, and then resumes his old attitude.)

(Change scene quickly.)

SCENE 3.—Ante-room in MR. MORTON'S villa. Front scene. Enter DON JOSE CASTRO and CONCHO, preceded by SERVANT, L.

Servant. This way, gentlemen.

Don Jose. Carry this card to Alexander Morton, sen.

Servant. Beg pardon, sir, but there's only one name here, sir (looking at CONCHO).

Don Jose (proudly). That is my servant, sir. [Exit SERVANT.

Don Jose (aside). I don't half like this business. But my money locked up in his bank, and my daughter's hand bound to his son, demand it. (Aloud.) This is no child's play, Concho, you understand.

Concho. Ah! I am wise. Believe me, if I have not proofs which shall blanch the cheek of this old man, I am a fool, Don Jose!

Re-enter SERVANT.

Servant. Mr. Morton, sen., passed a bad night, and has left word not to be disturbed this morning. But Mr. Morton, jun., will attend you, sir.

Concho (aside). So the impostor will face it out. Well, let him come.

Don Jose (to SERVANT) I wait his pleasure. [Exit SERVANT.

Don Jose. You hear, Concho? You shall face this man. I shall repeat to him all you have told me. If you fail to make good your charge, on your head rests the consequences.

Concho. He will of course deny. He is a desperate man: he will perhaps attack me. Eh! Ah! (Drawing revolver.)

Don Jose. Put up your foolish weapon. The sight of the father he has deceived will be more terrible to him than the pistol of the spy.

Enter COL. STARBOTTLE, C.

Starbottle. Mr. Alexander Morton, Jun., will be with you in a moment. (Takes attitude by door, puts his hand in his breast, and inflates himself.)

Concho (to DON JOSE, aside). It is the bullying lawyer. They will try to outface us, my patron; but we shall triumph. (Aloud.) He comes, eh!—Mr. Alexander Morton, gentlemen! I will show you a cheat, an impostor!

Enter, in correct, precise morning dress, SANDY MORTON. There is in his make-up and manner a suggestion of the father.

Concho (recoiling, aside). Diego! The real son. (Aloud, furiously.) It is a trick to defeat justice,—eh!—a miserable trick! But it shall fail, it shall fail!

Col. Starbottle. Permit me, a moment,—a single moment. (To Concho.) You have—er—er—characterized my introduction of this—er—gentleman as a "cheat" and an "imposture." Are you prepared to deny that this is Alexander Morton?

Don Jose (astonished, aside). These Americanos are of the Devil! (Aloud and sternly.) Answer him, Concho, I command you.

Concho (in half-insane rage). It is Alexander Morton; but it is a trick,—a cowardly trick! Where is the other impostor, this Mr. John Oakhurst?

Sandy (advancing with dignity and something of his father's cold manner). He will answer for himself, when called for. (To DON JOSE.) You have asked for me, sir: may I inquire your business?

Concho. Eh! It is a trick,—a trick!

Don Jose (to CONCHO). Silence, sir! (To SANDY, with dignity.) I know not the meaning of this masquerade. I only know that you are NOT the gentleman hitherto known to me as the son of Alexander Morton. I am here, sir, to demand my rights as a man of property and a father. I have received this morning a check from the house of Morton & Son, for the amount of my deposit with them. So far—in view of this complication—it is well. Who knows? Bueno! But the signature of Morton & Son to the check is not in the handwriting I have known. Look at it, sir. (To SANDY, handing check.)

Sandy (examining check). It is my handwriting, sir, and was signed this morning. Has it been refused?

Don Jose. Pardon me, sir. It has not been presented. With this doubt in my mind, I preferred to submit it first to you.

Starbottle. A moment, a single moment, sir. While as a—er—gentleman and a man of honor, I—er—appreciate your motives, permit me to say, sir, as a lawyer, that your visit is premature. On the testimony of your own witness, the identification of Mr. Alexander Morton, jun., is—er—complete; he has admitted the signature as his own; you have not yet presented the check to the bank.

Don Jose. Pardon me, Col. Starbottle. It is not all. (To SANDY.) By a written agreement with Alexander Morton, sen., the hand of my daughter is promised to his son, who now stands before me, as my former servant, dismissed from my service for drunkenness.

Sandy. That agreement is revoked.

Don Jose. Revoked!

Sandy (handing paper). Cast your eyes over that paper. At least you will recognize THAT signature.

Don Jose (reads). "In view of the evident preferences of my son, Alexander Morton, and of certain family interests, I hereby revoke my consent to his marriage with the Dona Jovita Castro, and accord him full permission to woo and win his cousin, Miss Mary Morris; promising him the same aid and assistance previously offered in his suit with Miss Castro.—ALEXANDER MORTON, SEN."

Concho. Ah! Carramba! Do you not see the trick,—eh, the conspiracy? It was this man, as Diego, your daughter's groom, helped his friend Mr. Oakhurst to the heiress. Ah, you comprehend! It was an old trick! You shall see, you shall see! Ah! I am wise, I am wise!

Don Jose (aside). Could I have been deceived? But no! This paper that releases HIM gives the impostor no claim.

Sandy (resuming his old easy manner, dropping his formality, and placing his hand on DON JOSE'S shoulder). Look yar, ole man: I didn't allow to ever see ye agin, and this yer ain't none o' MY seekin'. But, since yer here, I don't mind tellin' ye that but for me that gal of yours would have run away a year ago, and married an unknown lover. And I don't mind adding, that, hed I known that unknown lover was my friend John Oakhurst, I'd have helped her do it. (Going.) Good-morning, Don Jose.

Don Jose. Insolent! I shall expect an account for this from your—father, sir.

Sandy. Adios, Don Jose. [Exit C.

Concho. It is a trick—I told you. Ah, I am wise. (Going to DON JOSE.)

Don Jose (throwing him off). Fool! [Exit DON JOSE.

Concho (infuriated). Eh! Fool yourself—dotard! No matter: I will expose all—ah! I will see Jovita;—I will revenge myself on this impostor! (Is about to follow, when COL. STARBOTTLE leaves his position by the door, and touches CONCHO on the shoulder.)

Starbottle. Excuse me.

Concho. Eh?

Starbottle. You have forgotten something.

Conhho. Something?

Starbottle. An apology, sir. You were good enough to express—er—incredulity—when I presented Mr. Morton: you were kind enough to characterize the conduct of my er—principal by—an epithet. You have alluded to me, sir,—ME—

Concho (wrathfully). Bully! (Aside.) I have heard that this pomposo, this braggart, is a Yankee trick too; that he has the front of a lion, the liver of the chicken. (Aloud.) Yes, I have said, you hear I have said, I, Concho (striking his breast), have said you are a—bully!

Starbottle (coolly). Then you are prepared to give me satisfaction, sir,—personal satisfaction.

Concho (raging). Yes, sir, now—you understand, now (taking out pistol), anywhere, here! Yes, here. Ah! you start,—yes, here and now! Face to face, you understand, without seconds,—face to face. So. (Presenting pistol.)

Starbottle (quietly). Permit me to—er—apologize.

Concho. Ah! It is too late!

Starbottle (interrupting). Excuse me, but I feared you would not honor me so completely and satisfactorily. Ged, sir, I begin to respect you! I accede to all your propositions of time and position. The pistol you hold in your hand is a derringer, I presume, loaded. Ah—er—I am right. The one I now produce (showing pistol) is—er—as you will perceive the same size and pattern, and—er—unloaded. We will place them both, so, under the cloth of this table. You shall draw one pistol, I will take the other. I will put that clock at ten minutes to nine, when we will take our positions across this table; as you—er—happily express it, "face to face." As the clock strikes the hour, we will fire on the second stroke.

Concho (aside). It is a trick, a Yankee trick! (Aloud.) I am ready. Now—at once!

Starbottle (gravely). Permit me, sir, to thank you. Your conduct, sir, reminds me of singular incident—

Concho (angrily interrupting). Come, come! It is no child's play. We have much of this talk, eh! It is action, eh, you comprehend,—action.

(STARBOTTLE places pistols under the cloth, and sets clock. CONCHO draws pistol from cloth; STARBOTTLE takes remaining pistol. Both men assume position, presenting their weapons; STARBOTTLE pompously but seriously, CONCHO angrily and nervously.)

Starbottle (after a pause). One moment, a single moment—

Concho. Ah, a trick! Coward! you cannot destroy my aim.

Starbottle. I overlook the—er—epithet. I wished only to ask, if you should be—er—unfortunate, if there was anything I could say to your—er—friends.

Concho. You cannot make the fool of me, coward. No!

Starbottle. My object was only precautionary. Owing to the position in which you—er—persist in holding your weapon, in a line with my right eye, I perceive that a ray of light enters the nipple, and—er—illuminates the barrel. I judge from this that you have been unfortunate enough to draw the—er—er—unloaded pistol.

Concho (tremulously lowering weapon). Eh! Ah! This is murder! (Drops pistol.) Murder!—eh—help (retreating), help!

[Exit hurriedly door C., as clock strikes. COL. STARBOTTLE lowers his pistol, and moves with great pomposity to the other side of the table, taking up pistol.

Starbottle (examining pistol). Ah! (Lifts it, and discharges it.) It seems that I am mistaken. (Going.) The pistol WAS—er—loaded! [Exit.

SCENE 4.—Front scene. Room in villa. Enter MISS MARY and JOVITA.

Miss Mary. I tell you, you are wrong, you are not only misunderstanding your lover, which is a woman's privilege, but you are abusing my cousin, which, as his relative, I won't put up with.

Jovita (passionately). But hear me, Miss Mary. It is a year since we were betrothed; and such a betrothal! Why, I was signed, sealed, and delivered to him, on conditions, as if I were a part of the rancho; and the very night, too, I had engaged to run away with him! And during that year I have seen the gentleman twice,—yes, twice!

Miss Mary. But he has written?

Jovita. Mother of God! Yes,—letters delivered by my father, sent to HIS CARE, read by him first, of course; letters hoping that I was well, and obeying my father's commands; letters assuring me of his unaltered devotion; letters that, compared with the ones he used to hide in the confessional of the ruined mission church, were as ice to fire, were as that snow-flower you value so much, Mary, to this mariposa blossom I wear in my hair. And then to think that this man—this John Oakhurst, as I knew him; this man who used to ride twenty miles for a smile from me on the church porch; this Don Juan who leaped that garden wall (fifteen feet, Mary, if it is an inch), and made old Concho his stepping-stone; this man, who daily perilled death for my sake—is changed into this formal, methodical man of business—is—is—I tell you there's a WOMAN at the bottom of it! I know it sure!

Miss Mary (aside). How can I tell her about the Duchess? I won't! (Aloud.) But listen, my dear Jovita. You know he is under probation for you, Jovita. All this is for you. His father is cold, methodical, unsympathetic. HE looks only to his bond with this son,—this son that he treats, even in matters of the heart, as a BUSINESS partner. Remember, on his complete reformation, and subjection to his father's will, depends your hand. Remember the agreement!

Jovita. The agreement; yes! It is the agreement, always the agreement! May the Devil fly away with the agreement! Look you, Miss Mary, I, Dona Jovita, didn't fall in love with an agreement: it was with a man! Why, I might have married a dozen agreements—yes, of a shorter limitation than this! (Crossing.)