Scene: The drug-store of the prison hospital.
A long counter runs all the way across the stage, from right to left, at the back part of the stage. On the far side of the counter, away from the audience, the convicts file by, entering at the right and going off at the left, having their orders for drugs filled by the clerk. On the side of the counter nearest to the audience is the portion of the room in which the drugs and supplies are kept, and in which the clerk works. This portion has an entrance at right, to the hospital, and one at the left, to a hall. At right center is a flat-topped desk, with a chair facing left; another chair on the other side of the desk. All the way under the counter, and along the walls at right and left, are rows of shelves occupied by boxes and bottles large and small, as in an ordinary drug-store. These shelves turn upon pivots, making possible a quick change of the room, at the end of Act II and of Act IV, into a bank.
At rise: Those convicts who have listed themselves as sick are getting their evening supply of drugs. They file along from right to left, hard-faced, desolate looking men both white and black, clad in the old-fashioned black and white striped convict suits. They shove bits of paper over the counter, and take their pills or powders, for the most part silently, sometimes with a grunt or a growl. A guard stands by the door, watching them, a club in his hand; the guard wearing blue uniform with brass buttons.
Bill Porter, the night drug-clerk on duty, takes the prescriptions and fills them silently and swiftly; they are all standard prescriptions, which he has ready mixed and measured, and for the most part all he does is to shove out two or three pills, or a powder folded up in blue paper. He is a smooth-shaven, fair-haired man of thirty-seven, not stout but well filled out, benevolent, but reserved in manner. He wears a white hospital costume, clean, but old and worn. The Negro, Joe, a trusty, is puttering about the place, making a pretense at dusting off the contents of the shelves with a rag. He wears a dingy grey uniform, with black stripe down the trousers.
Biggins (next to the last man in the line; a lean, wiry street-rat and pickpocket; he talks out of the corner of his mouth, so that the guard will not detect him): Say, Buddy, can’t yer give us somethin’ different from these here white pills?
Porter: I am filling your prescription.
Biggins: Well, can’t yer wait till yer make yer rounds, an give us somethin’ else?
Porter: If you want me to prescribe for you, you’ll have to apply when I’m making my rounds.
Biggins: Thanks, Buddy, fer the tip. The croaker’s been t’rowin’ dese here white bullets down me troat fer a month now—
Purzon (the last convict in the line; a big man, broad, beefy-faced, noisy, who has passed worthless checks by posing as a ranchman): Cheer up, kid, there’s nothin’ in ’em but a lump of dough. (he hands over his slip of paper, and receives a couple of pills). Don’t I get a powder too? The croaker said I should.