An Episode from Act Three

Place, Tim Murphy\'s saloon.          Time, evening.

Men are crowding about the bar, drinking and laughing coarsely. The wives are huddled together on a long bench at one side of the room. The children keep close to their mothers, but stretch their little necks to watch the dancing in the back of the room, where a group of painted women are tangoing to the wheezy accompaniment of an old accordion. Over in the corner a man sprawls drunkenly across a broken-down faro table.

Dick Long (hammering the bar with his mug and singing). Oh, I\'m goin\' to hell, and I don\'t give a damn. I\'m goin\' to hell. I\'m goin\' to—hell.

Murphy (knocking a board from the crate that holds the new nickel-in-the-slot gramaphone). You\'re going a damn sight faster than that, Dickie Bird, but you\'ll have to speed up a bit to get in on the concert. The program begins at eight o\'clock sharp, like it says on the card in the window, and everybody gets an invite, but Caruso don\'t sing this time.

First Painted Lady (stopping the dance and coming down beside Murphy). Let \'er go, Murph. Give us "Too Much Mustard." The piano player down at the Gulch plays that just fine, and a piece about a girl that didn\'t want to love him, but he made her do it. That machine was long on personal history, Murph. I heard them all through three times. Let \'er go. We\'re all here.

First Wife (leaning over and speaking eagerly). Mrs. Long won\'t be able to come, Murphy, and Old Moll is settin\' up with her to-night. I met Doc as I came across. The young-un died. I don\'t see no use in waitin\' when we\'re all here.

Rosie Phelan (reaching over and pulling Long\'s sleeve). Did you hear that, Dick? Your kid is dead. Your kid is—d-e-a-d. Do you get me?

Man at the Bar. Aw, break it to him gentle. He don\'t know he is a father yet. Have a heart.

Rosie Phelan (disgustedly). "Have a heart." Well, what do you think of that? For a man who guzzles all day you are mighty strong on the heart-throb slush. "Speak kindly to the erring." Didn\'t know you had got religion. Was it you got the revivalist to come up from the Gulch?

Nell (shifting her wad of gum). Well, he was sitting over at Benton\'s rather lonesome-like as I came along. I allus follow the crowd.

Murphy (hotly). And that is what that preacher will have to do if he makes any converts up here at the mine. I reckon that, with that music machine, I\'m equipped to compete with any preacher that comes larking around here until kingdom come. He said he\'d save me, if he had to chase me to hell and back, did he? Well, that guy should worry. That pale chicken-liver chase me to—Pour out the drinks, Bob. It\'s my treat.

Bob slops a little whiskey into every glass and mug on the bar and passes it round. As it comes to the wives they smile, but shake their heads. Murphy lifts his glass.

Murphy. Won\'t you women drink the minister\'s health. How about you females, Bett? Nell? Rosie? Mollie? You girls never turn down free liquor, do you? Ready? To hell with the minister.

Barkeeper. To hell with every denatured female that comes round here praying for our souls\' salvation. I reckon a feller can do what he damn pleases with his own soul.

First Lounger (lazily boastful). I told my old woman that if I ketched her or the kids hanging round listening to that mollycoddle letting off steam, I\'d——

First Wife (spitefully). Us women ain\'t got no call to get religion. We\'re too meek already. My man knows that he\'ll have a wildcat at his head when he comes in with that O\'Grady woman, but it don\'t do no good. He ain\'t afeared o\' nothin\' short o\' the devil. You don\'t ketch me joinin\' while my old man is alive. You gotta have some protection. Safety first, I say.

Second Wife (meekly). They say the "Blue Ridge Mountains" is a mighty tuneful piece. My sister heard it over at Smarty\'s las\' Thanksgiving. Can you tell whether your pianoler plays that, Murphy?

Second Painted Lady (patronizingly). How would you expect Murphy to know what is stored in that machine? You pays your money and your choice is whatever it happens to grind out. If you place your money on a "Harem" and draws an "Apple Blossom Time in Normandy," you got to take your medicine. What you waiting for, Murph? My gentleman friend is coming over from the Pass this evening, and I can\'t hang around here all night.

Rosie (excitedly, turning from the window that looks upon the street). The light is out at Benton\'s. The minister is coming over here. Remember and give him hell. Let him turn the other cheek.

Murphy. No prayer meeting virgin is going to interfere with my business.

The door opens and the minister steps inside. Murphy goes over and greets him with mock politeness.

Murphy. Rosie, you are chief usher to-night. Will you find the minister a seat? Sit over, Nell. There\'s room enough between you and Bett for any sky pilot that ever hit the trail. Bob, give the preacher a drink. He looks sort of fagged. It\'s hard work saving sinners in God\'s Back Yard. I hope this little concert ain\'t going to interfere with your meeting, parson.

Minister (standing at the bar, whiskey glass in hand). Not at all, friend. What is the bill of fare?

Rosie (coming forward in her low-cut red gown and swinging her full skirts from side to side). For Gawd\'s sake, why didn\'t you tell me it was going to be religious? I\'d forgot it was prayer-meetin\' night, Murph. (She carefully tucks her handkerchief over her bosom in pretense of modesty.) I\'d dressed up more, if I\'d remembered.

Nell (holding out a string of glittering beads).............