John. Wal, neow, Jarius, depend upon it, there’s nothin’ like a stiddy, in-door-work life to give a man position in the world. Yeou city fellers may do all the schemin’ yeou like; but when the time comes for action, it’s the farmers and the shoemakers that find the bone and sinew to keep the world a joggin’, whether in provisions or politics. You peddle, and we provide; you scheme, and we vote. My grandsir was a shoemaker, so was my daddy, so am I, and I mean that my boy Will, there, shall foller in the footsteps of his father. P’raps ’tain’t what you might call a high calling; but boots and shoes, taps and patches, are always wanted, and will be jest as long as gineration succeeds gineration; and when you’ve got a trade like mine, p’raps you can’t hoard up much money, but you’ve got a sure hold on the staff of life.

Jarius. Jes’ so, John, jes’ so; that’s mighty good argifying, if a feller critter hain’t got no soul above peggin’ souls. But that air Will of yourn has got the city fever the wust kind. He’s hankering for a chance to try his fortune among the money-catchers. Consarn it, give the boy a chance. There’s no hay-seed in his hair.

Will. That’s right, Jarius; peg away. I never shall take kindly to this work. Hammer and sew, patch and peg. Bah! I’m tired of it! It’s so awful slow! I want to see the world, rub elbows with bustling fellows, set my wits at work, use my tongue, wrestle with sharp ones for the best end of a bargain. That’s life!

Jarius. Jes’ so. You’re a lively young colt—you are. It’s a shame you can’t have a prance in the city.

John. Yes; you’re a pretty chap to set a lad’s head a whizzing—you are, Jarius Jordan. You’ve been everything by turn, and nothing long.

Jarius. Jes’ so, John, jes so. But I calkilate that with every turn I’ve give myself a h’ist in the world, anyhow. I’ve peddled tin ware, wooden ware, hardware, everywhere. I’ve swapped horses, traded in cattle, druv hogs, and raised poultry. I’ve invented cotton gins, reapers, and mowers, cider presses and match safes, travelled with pictures, poetry books, stationery, and Bibles. I’ve dug gold, mined copper, and bored ile; fit Ingins, Mexicans, and sesesh; kept school, led a choir, taught singing-school, been a deacon in regular standing. I’ve been a printer, a book-binder, a counter-jumper, and an insurance agent, and other things too numerous to mention. There’s three things I never took a hand in—swearin’, lyin’, and drinkin’. I’ve got a clean conscience and a bank-book full of figgers. I despise meanness, hate misers, and am down on rascality like all possessed. So, you see, John, with all my rolling, I’ve gathered some moss, and am none the wuss for it.

Will. No, indeed. There’s not a better fellow living than Jarius Jordan.

Jarius. O, git eout! Don’t yeou go to tootin’ the horn.

Ned. It’s the truth. ’Twould have been a hard winter for widow Black, but for the kind care Jarius Jordan bestowed upon her.

Jarius. Sho! Don’t you tell tales out of school, young feller.

Will. Then there’s old Pearson. Who’d have kept him out of the poorhouse, when he broke his leg, if Jarius Jordan hadn’t stepped in, housed him all winter, and paid the doctor’s bill?

Jarius. O, go along! D’ye want to spile my complexion? Now, John, you just give Will a chance. You’ll never regret it.

John. I tell you, what’s good enough for the old man is good enough for the boy. I’ll never give my consent to his going into the city—never. I’m not going to send my boy into that sink of iniquity, to be overcome by temptation. So you jest shut up, Jarius. I’ve got an awful temper, and if you rile me, I won’t answer for the consequences.

Jarius. Jes’ so. But, speaking of temptations—

Enter Hannah, L., with a small brown jug.

Hannah. Here, father, here’s your “’leven o’clock.”

John. (Dropping his work, and taking the jug.) Ah, that’s good.

Hannah. Why, law sakes, Mr. Jerden![1] How do you do? The sight of you’s good for sore eyes.

Jarius. Thank you, marm. I’m pretty well, considerin’. Hope you’re hearty.

Hannah. Me? Sakes alive! I never had an ache or a pain in my life, and I’m goin’ on for sixty. There’s nothin’ like good, wholesome work to keep off sickness.

Jarius. Jes so, Mrs. Nutter.

John. (After a long pull at the jug.) Ah, that’s good! The raal Holland, sweetened to taste, and rousing hot! Take a pull, Jarius?

Jarius. No, I thank ye.

John. (Takes a drink.) Ah! Here, Will. (Passes jug to Will, who grasps it eagerly, and drinks.)

Jarius. Sho! Yeou ain’t a going to drink that stuff!

Will. Stuff? Hullo!

John. Stuff? Hear the critter!

Hannah. Stuff, indeed! When I mixed it myself, and in the little brown jug, that’s been in the family years and years!

Jarius. Jes’ so. The jug is a relic?

Hannah. Yes, indeed; and we wouldn’t part with it for the world. It’s been handed down from father to son ever since the first Nutter landed in America.

John. And used year in and year out. It’s seasoned with the good grog of five generations.

Jarius. Jes’ so. Seen some tight times, I reckon. Come, Ned, it’s your turn.

Ned. No, I thank you. I never drink.

Will. (Drinks.) No? I stand his watch.

Jarius. Jes’ so. So Ned don’t like it, hey?

Ned. Ned never tasted it, Mr. Jordan. My poor mother’s last request was that I should never touch it. Don’t you think a mother’s last request should be sacred?

Jarius. Don’t I? As sacred as the family Bible.

Ned. As sacred as the memory of the loved and lost. I had a good mother, Mr. Jordan.

Jarius. Jes’ so. You show it.

Hannah. Yes, indeed; a poor, hard-working woman was Marcy Hartshorn: the best washer and ironer in the place; and such a cook! Her pies would make your mouth water. And turnovers! the young ones would cry for them. O, dear! such a pity she threw herself away on that drunken sot—Jim Hartshorn. Why, when he died—

John. Hush, mother, hush!

Hannah. Dear me! I forgot. But it always makes me mad when I think—(sniffs). Bless me! What’s that? (Sniffs.) I smell something.

Jarius. Jes’ so—gin and sugar.

Hannah. It’s my pies a-burning, as sure as I live! And I here gossiping. O, dear! there’s a whole ovenful spoiled by my neglect! (Exit, L.)

John. Don’t mind her, Ned. She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. She’d do anything in the world for you.

Ned. I know she would. Heaven bless her! You see, Mr. Jordan, liquor has left a stain on my family name; and I’m not likely to be friendly with it.

Jarius. Jes’ so. Stick to the last request, young feller, and you’ll wipe it out. And if ever you want a friend, don’t forget the undersigned, Jarius Jordan, for you’ll find him on hand, like a picked-up dinner.

John. There; that job’s done. Here, Will, drop that jug. It’s a leetle strong to-day. Put on your coat, and take these shoes to Mrs. Douglas.

Will. (Rises while speaking, takes off apron, puts on coat and hat, sets the jug on the floor beside John Nutter’s bench.) That’s just the job for me. Hen Douglas sent me word he wanted to see me. So I can kill two birds with one stone. (Takes shoes.) The Holland is a leetle strong, and no mistake. (Exit, C.)

Jarius. See here, John Nutter, I’m a b’ilin’ and a b’ilin’, an’ if I don’t let off steam, there’ll be a case of spontaneous combustion in my in’ards. You’re a good deal older than I am; but we’ve been good friends ever since I was knee high to a woodchuck; so, hear me fust, and lick me arterwards, if you don’t like it. Here you’ve been a talking about the temptations of the city, and putting that inter your boy’s mouth that will work his etarnal destruction! Your little brown jug will be his evil genius. Mind what I say. He hankers arter it now; and you, here in the country, are tempting him, and making an appetite that’ll eat him up soul and body. And now he’s off to meet that air Douglas, who always has a bottle at his elbow. He’s a dangerous chap.

John. Much you know about it. He’s Will’s friend. He’s taken a shine to him, and, if I’d say the word, would give him a great lift in the city. He’s a well-meaning chap, that Douglas. He’s got a rich father, and need not work. He’s well edicated, and has got good manners. Will’s all the better for being in company with such a man. As for the little brown jug, don’t abuse that. It never did me any harm, and I was as young as Will when I took my first pull at it. So, don’t you meddle, Jarius. When I find things going wrong in my family, I’ll take ’em in hand myself.

Jarius. Jes’ so. Look here, John. I’ve taken a fancy to that boy myself. Give me his time, and I’ll put in your hand, to-day, five hundred dollars, and guarantee you a thousand more, if I don’t make a man of him when he’s twenty-one.

John. (Rising.) You can’t have him. I’ve just had enough of your meddling. If I wanted him to go, I’d make terms with Mr. Douglas, and not you. He shall never go with my leave; and he knows that if he goes without, he never returns here. You’re pretty flush with your money, Jarius, but you haven’t enough to buy that boy’s time, nor logic enough, sharp as you think yourself, to turn my purpose. (Exit, L.)

Jarius. Jes’ so. Stubborn as a mule. Douglas will get that boy in spite of thunder. I do hate to see that young feller go to the dogs; as he’s sure to do if something don’t hinder. He’s jest the chap to go into Stinson’s good graces, and gain a complete knowledge of agricultural implements in his concern, and jest the lad to keep a sharp eye on my interest in the patent reaper. I do hate to get eucred; but old Nutter’s a hard lot when he gets his back up.

Enter Sally, C.

Sally. Goodness gracious! If I’ve been here once, I’ve been here twenty times for Mrs. Douglas’s shoes, and she ravin’ distracted about ’em! Such a dawdlin’ set as you shoemakers are!—Sakes, Mr. Jerden, heow dew yeou dew? I didn’t see yeou before.

Jarius. (On her entrance puts up his knife, takes off his hat, and tries to smooth his hair, and appears very sheepish and awkward while she remains.) Jes’ so, Miss Higgins; business first, and pleasure arterwards.

Ned. Don’t fret about the shoes, Sally. Will has just taken them to the house.

Sally. Well, thank goodness, that’s settled.

Jarius. Heow’s yeour marm, Miss Peeslee?

Sally. Rather peaked, Mr. Jerden; and jest when I ought to be at home, I’m kept at the big house and worked like a dog. Such a set of cross-grained folks you never did see. Old Mr. Douglas as proud and stiff as a grannydear, Mrs. Douglas frettin’ and worryin’ the livelong day about nothin’, and that good-for-nothin’ Hen of theirs a carryin’ on all sorts of didos. He and the old gentleman had an awful quarrel this mornin’. Somehow Mr. Douglas got it into his head that Hen was sparking Mary Nutter in airnest. Don’t believe such a notion ever entered the feller’s head afore. He’s only flirtin’ with her, same as he has with twenty other girls; but, to spite the old man, he swore—O, awful!—he’d marry her, if he was turned out of doors for it.

Ned. He marry our Mary!

Sally. Why not? He’s none too good for her.

Ned. She’s too good for him.

Sally. Why, Ned, you ain’t sweet on her—are you?

Ned. Me? I should not dare. But he’s a worthless spendthrift, thinks only of his own pleasure, regardless of others’ feelings, selfish, dissipated, cunning, and crafty. He marry Mary! Heaven forbid!

Jarius. Jes’ so. He cuts a mighty big swell on an awful small capital.

Sally. He’s good looking, and that goes a long way with girls. I don’t think Mary would break her heart if she knew she was to be his wife.

Ned. No; but, once in his possession, he would break it. Many whispers of his wild life in the city have been blown to our ears.

Sally. He’s a communion merchant—ain’t he?

Ned. A commission merchant, Sally.

Jarius. Jes’ so. I’ve heard of him. He’s got a shingle, a desk, and a chair. The shingle hangs at the door; he sits in the chair and watches his legs on the desk, through tobacco smoke; and that’s the extent of his business.

Sally. He wants to take Will Nutter off there, to learn the business.

Jarius. Jes’ so. And, with the edication he’s receiving here, he’ll make a capital assistant in the smoking department.

Sally. Land sakes! I can’t stop here spinning shop yarn. Good by. Nothing new—is there? I haven’t been out of the house for a week.

Jarius. Nothing special, Miss Peeslee. Harris has lost the suit and the cow.

Sally. I want to know!

Jarius. Mrs. Prime as buried her husband last week; has gone to Jarsey to modify her grief.

Sally. Poor Mrs. Prime! How I pity her!

Jarius. Jes’ so. She lost a prime husband, that’s a fact. He was the best feller on a fishing frolic you ever see. Parson Lucas has resigned, and they do say the parish is resigned to his resigning, too. They’ve got a new bell-rope onto the second parish. Mrs. Jones’s expectations has turned out a bouncing boy—

Sally. What! another?

Jarius. That’s what they say. Molly Moses had a candy scrape last night, and Si Jones went home with his hair full. Bunsen has got a new lot of calicoes—prime ones, fast colors. And Joe Britton has killed his hog. But there’s no news.

Sally. No weddin’, no nothin’? I don’t hear anythin’ about your marriage, Mr. Jerden.

Jarius. Don’t you? Well, that’s queer. I ben about it every time I come home. But it’s all talk and no cider. No, Miss Peeslee, I’m an unplucked apple on the tree of life. But, to return the compliment, I don’t hear nothin’ ’bout your gittin’ spliced.

Sally. Me? I guess not. It’s time enough to think about that when mother is able to take care of herself. I won’t say I haven’t had a chance, Mr. Jerden; but my first duty is to her; and I mean to work my fingers to the bone, if need be, that the old home may shelter her as long as she lives.

Jarius. Jes’ so. So you gave Si Slocum the mitten?

Sally. Yes, I did,—the worthless scamp!

Jarius. Then Deacon Sassafras wanted you to take the place of his late departed—didn’t he?

Sally. He wanted a drudge, the mean old skinflint!

Jarius. Why, he’s rich—the deacon is.

Sally. But awful mean. I don’t see how they trust him up behind the singing-seats with the contribution box Sundays. I wouldn’t.

Jarius. Jes’ so. Josh Higgins was kinder smitten one time—hey, Miss Peeslee.

Sally. Well, p’raps he was, and p’raps he wasn’t. He was too much smitten with whiskey for me.

Jarius. Jes’ so. Well, Sally—Miss Peeslee—you’re a smart gal; and if I want so pesky busy with my new reaper—I’d—I’d—

Sally. Well, what would you do, Mr. Jerden?

Jarius. I’d jest look round and pick out a smart husband for you.

Sally. You needn’t trouble yourself, Mr. Jerden. I can pick for myself when I git ready. Better be lookin’ out for yourself. You do want slicking up, and a wife would soon reduce that crop of hair to its proper dimensions, mend that hole in your elbow, iron out that ruffled, seedy-looking hat, and find a blacking-brush for those rusty boots. If I wasn’t so busy, Jarius—Mr. Jerden—I’d look round and find you a wife, for you do need one awfully. (Exit, C.)

Jarius. Jes’ so. Neow there’s a gal I’ve been hankerin’ arter for five years, and never so much as dared ask her to lecter or singin’-school. Consarn it, Jarius, you’re a mealy-mouthed critter among the gals, smart as you are at tradin’ and swappin’. It’s no sorter use; the minute that gal comes a-near me, there’s a sinkin’ at my stomach that no end of vittles can’t fill up. Smart? Why, she beats all nater; and I kinder think she likes me, and gin those chaps the go-by on my account. Come, come, Jarius, spunk up! Don’t be a fool! Say the word, and she’s yourn for better or for wus. I’ll put arter her, and spit it out to once. (Goes to door, C.)

Enter Sally, C.

Sally. Here, Ned; I forgot to pay for the boots. (Gives money.)

Ned. One dollar. All right. Thank you, Sally.

Sally. Was you going my way, Mr. Jerden?

Jarius. Yes—no—no. I was going to see Joe Bristles’ hog.

Sally. O, yes. “Birds of a feather,” you know. (Exit, C. to R.)

Jarius. Jes’ so. Consarn it, Jarius, you are a hog, and no mistake. (Exit, C. to L.)

Ned. Hen Douglas marry Mary Nutter! O, Heaven forbid! What a dear good girl she is! The sound of her voice, as she merrily sings at her work, sets my hammer flying glibly, and my heart beating quickly, too. ’Twill be called a good match, for he has money, and she is the most capable girl in the place. She would grace the handsomest house that his money could furnish. But could he make her happy? He, with his foppish airs, his love of display, delight in reckless dissipation! No, no. He would tire of her in a week, and then, with some new fancy luring him, turn coldly from her, perhaps abuse her, and break her heart. Break her heart! O, Mary, Mary! For the first time in my life I long for wealth, for then I should have the power to enter the field, and, if I could not win you for myself, at least save you from a heartless man.

Mary. (Outside, L., sings.)

Enter, L., with pail.

Ah, Ned, all alone, and still at work? The old adage will never do for you—“When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

Ned. No, indeed, Mary. I like work too well to slight it when the master’s eye is not upon me. It’s such a jolly companion! With every peg I drive away poverty; with every punch of my awl I see success; with every pull of the threads I gain a long pull and a strong pull up the ladder of life. O, work is a man’s best friend, and when he turns his back upon that, he richly deserves what he is sure to get—a gloomy life and a nameless grave.

Mary. Well done, Ned!

Ned. Mary, Mary, don’t laugh at me!

Mary. Laugh at you? No, indeed; not I. You were philosophical, so I, to keep you company, became poetical. But you’re right, Ned, as you always are. Work has been your best friend, for it has enabled all of us to find in you its best companion—merit.

Ned. Ah! thank you, Mary. If you only knew how proud I feel to hear you praise me!

Mary. If I did? Why, then, I suppose I should feel it my duty to be silent. So don’t let me know it. Good by.

Ned. Where are you going?

Mary. To the well for water.

Ned. No; I’ll go for you. (Jumping up.) Give me the pail.

Mary. Thank you. (Gives pail. Ned goes to door.) I say, Ned, ain’t you afraid to leave your awl behind?

Ned. (At door.) Mary, you’re laughing at me.—(Aside.) She little knows I leave my all—my heart—behind. (Exit, L.)

Mary. (Sits on bench.) Dear fellow! What a shame his father turned out so bad! And no mother to care for him! (Takes up lapstone and strap.) I wonder what kind of a shoemaker I should make! (Takes awl.) Dear me, I’ve pricked my finger! Where’s the hammer? O, here it is. I don’t believe it’s very hard work to mend a shoe. As he is doing my work, I should be doing his. I wonder where he left off!

Enter Douglas, C.

Douglas. Beautiful, beautiful!

Mary. (Jumping up.) Mr. Douglas!

Douglas. Ah, Mary, I’ve caught you cobbling.

Mary. No, you haven’t, for I hadn’t commenced.

Douglas. So, so, the pretty Mary has turned cobbler!

Mary. The pretty Mary has done nothing of the kind. She was only amusing herself while waiting—

Douglas. For me—her adorer, who languishes in her absence, and whose heart beats with rapture at sight of her beautiful face.

Mary. Don’t, Henry, be so sentimental. You know I don’t like it. Why not say, plain and plump, “I’m glad to see you!” instead of all that palaver about languish and heart-beats? You know I don’t like it.

Douglas. O, you don’t? Then hereafter this rapturous—

Mary. Henry!

Douglas. Mary, I’ve done. But what in the world were you doing on that dirty bench?

Mary. Well, I never! Dirty, indeed! Sit down there at once!

Douglas. What! I? You’re joking.

Mary. Very well, if you don’t choose to obey me, I’m off to my work. (Going, L.)

Douglas. O, very well, if you mean it. (Sits on bench.)

Mary. Now, Henry, I’ve made a vow that I will never marry a man who cannot mend a shoe. I’ve just made it. And if you have any expectation of making me your wife, the sooner you learn the trade the better.

Douglas. Well, that’s a capital joke, and, egad, I’ll humor it. So here goes. (Takes up lapstone. Drops it on his toes.) O, murder! I’ve smashed my toe!

Mary. No matter. Try again.

Douglas. To smash another? No, I thank you. (Puts lapstone in lap.) There, that’s all right. (Takes up shoe, puts strap over it.) How’s that?

Mary. Beautiful. You were born to be a shoemaker.

Douglas. I hope not. (Takes pegs and hammer.) Now, to drive my first peg. (Strikes his fingers. Ned appears at doorway with pail.) O, murder! I’ve smashed my thumb!

Ned. Served you right, meddler.

Douglas. (Starts up.) Sir! What’s that?

Ned. The truth. You’re meddling with my tools; and if you’re not out of this place in three seconds, I’ll wallop you.

Mary. O, Ned, Ned! it’s all my fault. I set him to work.

Ned. O, indeed! That’s quite another matter. But he can’t stay on my bench.

Douglas. If you’re not more civil, you won’t stay on it long. Mind that, Master Ned.

Ned. What d’ye mean?

Mary. Now, don’t quarrel. Bring the pail in for me, Ned.—Mr. Douglas, I’ll give you a lesson another time. (Exit, L.)

Ned. Lesson, indeed! You work with your white hands! Bah, you couldn’t earn your salt! (Exit, L.)

Douglas. Confound that fellow, he puts on more airs than a nabob! He’s in the way. Mary is too fond of him; and he, with that jealous glitter in his eye, too much in love with her for my comfort. He must be got rid of. Pshaw, Douglas! What chance could a poor journeyman shoemaker have with the lady of your choice? Rich, accomplished, by no means a bad-looking fellow, the whole family would be delighted to gain so distinguished a connection. And she, I know, looks upon me with favor. I have only to gain the old man’s consent. And that’s an easy matter. Still, I don’t like the idea of this fellow’s presence. He must be got rid of. But how? Will! Ah, there’s a ready tool. I want him in the city. There’s a little sharp practice in which I want a second hand to work; and Will’s the lad. If I can only get him to pick a quarrel with Ned Hartshorn, bring them to blows, and thus arouse the old man’s temper, they’ll both be turned out of doors. Will would be mine, and the other out of the way.

Will. (Outside. Sings.)

Enters, C., intoxicated.

Hullo, Hen! How are you, Hen? I’ve been looking for you—I have. Wan’t at home. But the bottle was. I found it in the old spot, so I drank your health. “Here’s to Hen Douglas. Hip, hip, hooray!” Hullo, there’s the little brown jug! I’ll drink your health again. Hip, hip, hooray! (Drinks.) I say! what’s the matter with you?

Douglas. I have been insulted.

Will. Been what? Say that again. Show me the man, woman, or child that has insulted Hen Douglas,—hip, hip, hooray!—and I’ll—I’ll wipe him out. Fetch ’em on, one at a time, or all together. I’m the friend of the oppressed—I am. Feel my muscle! so don’t you be afraid. Say, who’s the feller or fellerers?

Douglas. Fellow, indeed! That miserable whelp, Ned Hartshorn, here in this place, and in the presence of your sister. But I’ve done with you all. I’ll not be disgraced by such associates. Good by, Will. You I like, and if ever you get into trouble, come to me in the city, and I’ll stand your friend.

Will. Say! hold on! Let’s settle this thing. You shall have satisfaction. If Ned Hartshorn has dared to insult my friend,—my friend, Hen Douglas; hip, hip, hooray!—I’ll trounce him. Now you just wait and see me do it. Going to the city? All right. I’ll go with you, spite of the old man.

Douglas. No, no, don’t pick a quarrel on my account. Perhaps he didn’t mean to insult me. Perhaps he was blinded by his love for your sister.

Will. What? Ned Hartshorn in love with my sister! I’ll trounce him for that. Now you see me do it. Insult my friend, and in love with my sister! O, I’ll fix him!

Douglas. Hush! Here he is.

Enter Ned, L.

Ned. Ah, Will, back again?

Will. Ay, back again, you sneaking thief!

Ned. How, Will? You forget yourself.

Will. Indeed! You forgot yourself when you made love to my sister and insulted my friend, you mean, contemptible sneak!

Ned. Will, you’ve been drinking.

Will. (Throws off his coat.) You’re right. I’ve just enough liquid lightning in my hide to rouse my manhood. You’ve insulted my friend. Beg his pardon at once.

Ned. I shall do nothing of the kind. If he has told you I insulted him, he must have told you, also, that I made love to your sister; and he’s a liar.

Douglas. Liar? This to me?

Ned. Ay, to you. ’Tis you who have turned Will’s head, you who have tempted him to drink, you who, with a lying tongue, now seek to make us quarrel. Bah! you’re a coward! You dare not face me yourself; you dare not ask me to beg your pardon; for, if you did, you know I’d knock you down quicker than I did when you insulted Patty Moore.

Will. But I dare, and mean you shall. So, solemn, pious, temperate Ned Hartshorn, obey at once!

Ned. Will, I’d do anything in reason to oblige you. But I can’t do that.

Will. Then I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.

Ned. O no, you won’t, Will.

Will. I say I will, sneak, coward, son of a drunkard!

Ned. Careful, Will, careful!

Will. Come on. My blood’s up. If you won’t apologize, you must fight.

Ned. Keep off! keep off, I say! You’ll get hurt.

Will. Shall I? I’ll risk it. (They struggle. Ned throws Will across stage. He falls on bench, L.)

Douglas. That won’t do. (Seizes jug, steps up behind Ned, and strikes him on the head. Jarius appears in the door, C.)

Ned. O, my head, my head! (Staggers, and falls on bench, R.)

Jarius. Jes’ so. (Disappears.)

Douglas. (Runs to Will, and places the jug in his hand.) Are you hurt, Will?

Will. Hurt? No. Let me come at him. Let me—

Douglas. No, no. You have nearly killed him with the jug.

Will. The jug?

Douglas. Yes; you seized it, and struck him before I could interfere.

Will. Did I? Then I’ll give him another.

Enter John, L.

John. What’s going on here? Fighting? Ned hurt? Who has done this?

Enter Jarius, C.

Jarius. (Goes to Ned.) The boy’s senseless. Water, water! quick! (Enter Mary, L.) Mary, bring water! quick! Ned’s hurt.

Mary. Ned hurt? O, mercy! (Exit, L.)

John. Who struck him?

Douglas. Will, but quite accidentally. You see, Ned provoked him, and, quite accidentally—

Will. No such thing. Don’t play sneak, Hen. I did it, old man, to uphold the honor of the family.

John. Will Nutter, you’re drunk.

Will. Drunk yourself, you old fool. O, I ain’t afraid of you. I’ve been tied to your leather apron long enough. Now I’m going to see the world. D’ye hear that, old man? No more pegs for me. You can have the little brown jug to yourself now. I’ve had a taste of something better—something stronger. It’s roused the man in me. So I’m off. Good by.

Enter Mary, L. with water. She runs to Ned, and Jarius and she try to revive Ned.

John. Stop, Will Nutter. If you leave this place now, you can never return to it.

Will. That’s all right—just the sort. Don’t want to see it again. Hope you’ll live long and prosper, and, when you die, leave a nice little fortune to yours, truly. Good by.

Douglas. Don’t mind him, sir. I’ll take care of him. You see how he is. Come, Will. (Drags him to the door, C.)

Will. I say, old man, I’m off to fame and fortune.

John. Fame and fortune? Disgrace and infamy! Will, I’ll give you one more chance. Return to your bench, and all shall be forgotten. Leave this place now, and its doors shall never be opened to you again, though you were dying on the doorstep. Choose now, and choose quickly.

Will. Quick enough. I’m off.

John. Then go; and, as you desert me, may you, in turn, be deserted. May all your plans fail you, your enterprises prove unsuccessful, poverty and ruin dog your steps, and life be to you a failure and a burden. Away, and bear with you a father’s bitter, bitter—

Mary. (Running to him, and putting her arms around his neck.) No, father, don’t say that, don’t say that! Poor boy, his will be a bitter life without his father’s curse.

TABLEAU.

Will in door, C., his left arm raised defiantly. Douglas has left hand on Will’s shoulder, his right hand in Will’s right, dragging him out. Jarius bending over Ned, R. John, L., with right hand raised; Mary, with her arms about his neck, looking into his face. Slow curtain.