Experimental O'Neill. Eugene O'Neill
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it’s money in yo’ pocket tradin’ wid ‘em if you does. But you’se too shiftless to take de trouble.
SMITHERS: [Flushing] Never mind about me. What’s this I’ve ‘eard about yer really ‘avin’ a silver bullet moulded for yourself?
JONES: It’s playin’ out my bluff. I has de silver bullet moulded and I tells ‘em when do time comes I kills myself wid it. I tells ‘em dat’s ‘cause I’m de on’y man in de world big enuff to git me. No use’n deir tryin’. And dey falls down and bumps deir heads. [He laughs.] I does dat so’s I kin take a walk in peace widout no jealous nigger gunnin’ at me from behind de trees.
SMITHERS: [Astonished] Then you ‘ad it made—’onest?
JONES: Sho’ did. Heah she he.
[He takes out his revolver, breaks it, and takes the silver bullet out of one chamber.]
Five lead an’ dis silver baby at de last. Don’t she shine pretty?
[He holds it in his hand, looking at it admiringly, as if strangely fascinated.]
SMITHERS: Let me see.
[Reaches out his hand for it]
JONES: [Harshly] Keep yo’ hands whar dey b’long, white man.
[He replaces it in the chamber and puts the revolver back on his hip.]
SMITHERS: [Snarling] Gawd blimey! Think I’m a bleedin’ thief, you would.
JONES: No, ‘tain’t dat. I knows you ‘se scared to steal from me. On’y I ain’t ‘lowin’ nary body to touch dis baby. She’s my rabbit’s foot.
SMITHERS: [Sneering] A bloomin’ charm, wot? [Venomously] Well, you’ll need all the bloody charms you ‘as before long, s’ ‘elp me!
JONES: [Judicially] Oh, I’se good for six months yit ‘fore dey gits sick o’ my game. Den, when I sees trouble comin’, I makes my getaway.
SMITHERS: Ho! You got it all planned, ain’t yer?
JONES: I ain’t no fool. I knows dis Emperor’s time is sho’t. Dat why I make hay when de sun shine. Was you thinkin’ I’se aimin’ to hold down dis job for life? No, suh! What good is gittin’ money if you stays back in dis raggedy country? I wants action when I spends. And when I sees dese niggers gittin’ up deir nerve to tu’n me out, and I’se got all de money in sight, I resigns on de spot and beats it quick.
SMITHERS: Where to?
JONES: None o’ yo’ business.
SMITHERS: Not back to the bloody States, I’ll lay my oath.
JONES: [Suspiciously] Why don’t I? [Then with an easy laugh] You mean ‘count of dat story ‘bout me breakin’ from jail back dere? Dat’s all talk.
SMITHERS: [Skeptically] Ho, yes!
JONES: [Sharply] You ain’t ‘sinuatin’ I’se a liar, is you?
SMITHERS: [Hastily] No, Gawd strike me! I was only thinkin’ o’ the bloody lies you told the blacks ‘ere about killin’ white men in the States.
JONES: [Angered] How come dey’re lies?
SMITHERS: You’d ‘ave been in jail, if you ‘ad, wouldn’t yer then? [With venom] And from what I’ve ‘eard, it ain’t ‘ealthy for a black to kill a white man in the States. They burns ‘em in oil, don’t they?
JONES: [With cool deadliness] You mean lynchin’ ‘d scare me? Well, I tells you, Smithers, maybe I does kill one white man back dere, Maybe I does. And maybe I kills another right heah ‘fore long if he don’t look out.
SMITHERS: [Trying to force a laugh] I was on’y spoofin’ yer. Can’t yer take a joke? And you was just sayin’ you’d never ken in jail.
JONES: [In the same tone—slightly boastful] Maybe I goes to jail dere for gettin’ in an argument wid razors ovah a crap game. Maybe I gits twenty years when dat colored man die. Maybe I gits in ‘nother argument wid de prison guard was overseer ovah us when we’re wukin’ de roads. Maybe he hits me wid a whip and I splits his head wid a shovel and runs away and files de chain off my leg and gits away safe. Maybe I does all dat an’ maybe I don’t. It’s a story I tells you so’s you knows I’se de kind of man dat if you evah repeats one words of it, I ends yo’ stealin’ on dis yearth mighty damn quick!
SMITHERS: [Terrified] Think I’d peach on yer? Not me! Ain’t I always been yer friend?
JONES: [Suddenly relaxing] Sho’ you has—and you better be.
SMITHERS: [Recovering his composure—and with it his malice] And just to show yer I’m yer friend, I’ll tell yer that bit o’ news I was goin’ to.
JONES: Go ahead! Shoot de piece. Must be bad news from de happy way you look.
SMITHERS: [Warningly] Maybe it’s gettin’ time for you to resign—with that bloomin’ silver bullet, wot? [He finishes with a mocking grin.]
JONES: [Puzzled] What’s dat you say? Talk plain.
SMITHERS: Ain’t noticed any of the guards or servants about the place today, I ‘aven’t.
JONES: [Carelessly] Dey’re all out in de garden sleepin’ under de trees. When I sleeps, dey sneaks a sleep, too, and I pretends I never suspicions it. All I got to do is to ring de bell and dey come flyin’, makin’ a bluff dey was wukin’ all de time.
SMITHERS:[In the same mocking tone] Ring the bell now an’ you’ll bloody well see what I means.
JONES: [Startled to alertness, but preserving the same careless tone] Sho’ I rings.
[He reaches below the throne and pulls out a big, common dinner bell which is painted the same vivid scarlet as the throne. He rings this vigorously—then stops to listen. Then he goes to both doors, rings again, and looks out.]
SMITHERS: [Watching him with malicious satisfaction, after a pause—mockingly] The bloody ship is sinkin’ an’ the bleedin’ rats ‘as slung their ‘ooks.
JONES: [In a sudden fit of anger flings the bell clattering into a corner] Low-flung, woods’ niggers!
[Then catching Smither’s eye on him, he controls himself and suddenly bursts into a low chuckling laugh.]
Reckon I overplays my hand dis once! A man can’t take de pot on a bob-tailed flush all de time. Was I sayin’ I’d sit in six months mo’? Well, I’se changed my mind den. I cashes in and resigns de job of Emperor right dis minute.
SMITHERS: [With real admiration] Blimey, but you’re a cool bird, and no mistake.
JONES: No use’n fussin’. When I knows de game’s up I kisses it goodbye widout no long waits. Dey’ve all run off to de hills, ain’t dey?
SMITHERS: Yes—every bleedin’ man jack of ‘em.
JONES: Den de revolution is at de post. And de Emperor better git his feet smokin’ up de trail.
[He starts for the door in rear.]
SMITHERS: Goin’ out to look for your ‘orse? Yer won’t find any. They steals the ‘orses first thing. Mine was gone when I went for ‘im this mornin’. That’s wot first give me a suspicion of wot was up.
JONES: [Alarmed for a second, scratches his head, then philosophically] Well, den I hoofs it. Feet, do yo’ duty!
[He pulls out a gold watch and looks at it.]
Three-thuty. Sundown’s at six-thuty or dereabouts.
[Puts his watch back—with cool confidence]
I got plenty o’ time to make it easy.
SMITHERS: Don’t be so bloomin’ sure of it. They’ll be after you ‘ot and ‘eavy. Ole Lem is at the bottom o’ this business an’ ‘e ‘ates