Valentine (enters, right; a tall, emaciated man of about forty; once handsome and debonair, now he is surly and grim; speaks with a slow drawl; wears the black and white stripes of a third-class prisoner, and walks feebly. Joe stays close by his side, ready to support him if needed) Hello, Al. Evenin’, Mr. Porter.
Jennings (offers him chair): Have a seat, Jimmie.
Valentine (lets himself carefully into chair): What’s the dope, Al?
Jennings: Good dope, Jimmie. The warden says you’ve a chance at a pardon.
Valentine: What’s that?
Jennings: Straight goods.
Valentine (after staring at him): What’s the son-of-a-bitch tryin’ to get out of me?
Jennings: He wants something, of course—
Valentine: Spit it out.
Jennings: You know this situation of the Press-Post?