Porter: No, Jimmie, no! That’s another way I was a coward; I wrote it differently—I had you use a kit of tools.
Jimmie: That’s all right, Mr. Porter—that’s the way I wanted it. People will see me like I wanted to be, and maybe that’ll help some poor kid to keep straight. Write your stories that way, and people will get some good out of them. Well, so long, Mr. Porter.
Porter: So long, Jimmie. (he rises and goes left, to wave Jimmie off; after Jimmie has gone, he stands partly in the shadows; the light grows dimmer)
(Uncle Caesar enters right; he is Joe, made up as his old father, but wearing blue uniform and cap. He pays no attention to Porter, but takes some papers from cashier’s drawer and puts them in his pocket, and is about to leave, when there is a sound at the door off right; he steps back into the shadows and stands watching as the Judge enters, made up as Judge Adair, bank president, clad in long waterproof coat, waterproof fisherman’s hat, and carrying several fishing rods, disjointed and wrapped in little cloth covers. The Judge does not see Porter or Caesar, but sets his rods on the desk and goes to the vault and turns the combination and opens it; he goes in and comes out at once, carrying suit-case)
Caesar (having watched this procedure with signs of intense concern, now comes forward, hesitating and trembling): Marse Jedge.
Judge (starts): Who’s that? Caesar? Why, you old blackguard, what the devil you doin’ here this time of night?
Caesar: Ah done tole Sisteh Adeline Hoskins to come to mah house at sebin o’clock tomorrer mawnin, fo to git de pass-book of de Sons and Daughters of de Burnin Bush, fo to kyar it to de meetin of de bo’d of rangements. Ah done fogit it, so Ah come to git it.
Judge: Humph! You better get home out of the night air. It’s damp. You’ll hardly be worth killing tomorrow on account of your rheumatism. Think it’ll be a clear day, Caesar?
Caesar (terribly embarrassed and frightened, but summoning his resolution and stammering): Ah low it will, suh. De sun sot red las night Marse Jedge, you member de day dey-all rode de tunnament at Oak Lawn? De day, suh, dat you win in de ridin, and you crown Miss Lucy de queen?
Judge: Tournament? Yes, I remember very well—but what the deuce are you talking about tournaments here at midnight for? Go long home, Caesar. I believe you’re sleep-walking.