Scene: The postoffice of the prison.
The view is from the interior of the office. The counter runs across the stage at the back, and there are two windows, with brass grills, through which the prison inmates get their mail; large racks with pigeon-holes at each side; these counters, including the racks and windows, are built on hinges, to swing back, away from the audience, making a large entrance, as described later. In the center of the stage, towards the front, is a large table, with five chairs; an extra chair in the room. On the left wall of the room, partly occupied by shelves, a portion has been cut into, and a little kitchenette built in; the wall is swung back on hinges, disclosing a gas oven, and shelves for pots and pans, with stock of provisions underneath. An entrance, left, and one on the other side of the room, right.
At rise: Five members of the “Recluse Club” are having a Christmas Eve celebration. The table is set with napery and silver, and remains of a partly consumed meal, including a turkey. Christmas wreaths and bunches of evergreens on the walls and hanging over the table. The members of the club are seated as follows: Porter in the middle seat, facing the audience; Jennings at his right and Delacour at his left. On the right of Jennings sits Raidler, which places him with his right side to the audience; the seat opposite to him, with left side to the audience, belongs to the Judge, but the Judge is now standing at the gas-oven, brewing a hot punch. All five of the men are in that state of gaiety appropriate to a feast. They are all in their prison costumes, save that the Judge has on a cook’s apron. Raidler is a shriveled-up cripple, with crutches on either side of his chair. The Negro Joe is present as a servant; he is not supposed to take part in the laughter and singing, but does so furtively, and on sufferance. He has got a drum-stick of the turkey, and gnaws it, occasionally sticking it away in his pocket when called upon for service. All are singing:
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!
What the hell do we care?
What the hell do we care?
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,
What the hell do we care now?
Jennings (pounds on table with his knife and fork): Speed her up, Judge, speed her up; we’re perishing!
Judge: If you want this punch in style, suh, you’ll have to allow me time fo’ the brewin’ of it, suh.