GOLD

PLAYS BY
EUGENE G. O’NEILL
————
THE MOON OF THE CARIBBEES
and Six Other Plays of the Sea
BEYOND THE HORIZON
THE STRAW
GOLD

Gold

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS
BY
EUGENE G. O’NEILL

BONI AND LIVERIGHT
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Gold
Copyright, 1920, by
Boni & Liveright, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America

SCENES OF ACTS

Time of the play—About the year 1900

ACT I

CHARACTERS

• Captain Isaiah Bartlett, of the whaling ship, Triton
• Silas Horne, boatswain of the Triton
• Ben Cates of the Triton’s crew
• Jimmy Kanaka, an Islander of the Triton’s crew
• Butler, cook of the Triton
• Abel, the ship’s boy
• Sarah Allen Bartlett, the captain’s wife
• Sue, their daughter
• Nat, their son
• Daniel Drew, officer of a freight steamer
• Doctor Berry

ACT ONE

Scene—A small, barren coral island on the southern fringe of the Malay Archipelago. The coral sand, blazing white under the full glare of the sun, lifts in the right foreground to a long hummuck a few feet above sea-level. A stunted coco palm rises from the center of this elevation, its bunch of scraggly leaves drooping motionlessly, casting a small circular patch of shadow directly beneath on the ground about the trunk. About a hundred yards in the distance the lagoon is seen, its vivid blue contrasting with the white coral beach which borders its circular outline. The far horizon to seaward is marked by a broad band of purplish haze which separates the bright blue of the water from the metallic grey-blue of the sky. The island bakes. The intensity of the sun’s rays is flung back skyward in a quivering mist of heat-waves which distorts the outlines of things, giving the visible world an intangible eerie quality, as if it were floating submerged in some colorless molten fluid.

As the curtain rises, Abel is discovered lying asleep, curled up in the patch of shade beneath the coco palm. He is a runty, under-sized boy of fifteen, with a shrivelled old face, tanned to parchment by the sum. He has on a suit of dirty dungarees, man’s size, much too large for him, which hang in loose folds from his puny frame. A thatch of brown hair straggles in limp wisps from under the peaked canvas cap he wears. He looks terribly exhausted. His dreams are evidently fraught with terror, for he twitches convulsively and moans with fright. Butler enters hurriedly, panting, from the right, rear. He is a tall man of over middle age, dressed in the faded remainder of what was once a brown suit. The coat, the buttons of which have been torn off, hangs open, revealing his nakedness beneath. A cloth cap covers his bald head, with its halo of dirty thin grey hair. His body is emaciated. His face, with its round, blue eyes, is weathered and cracked by the sun’s rays. The wreck of a pair of heavy shoes flop about his bare feet. He looks back cautiously, as if he were afraid of being followed; then satisfied that he is not, he approaches the sleeping boy, and bending down, puts his hand on Abel’s forehead. Abel groans and opens his eyes. He stares about furtively, as if seeking someone whose presence he dreads to find.

Abel—[In a husky voice.] Where’s Capt’n and the rest, Butts?

Butler—[In a hoarse, cracked whisper.]—On the beach—down there. [He makes an exhausted gesture, right, and then sinks with a groan at the foot of the tree, leaning back against the trunk, trying vainly to hunch his long legs up so as to be completely in the shade.]

Abel—What’re they doin’? [With avid eyes.] They ain’t found no water yet?

Butler—[Shaking his head, his eyes closing wearily.] No. How would they—when there ain’t any—not on this devil’s island—dry as a bone, my sonny—sand and sun—that’s all.

Abel—[Remonstratingly—his lips trembling a little.] Aw—maybe—you don’t know no different.

Butler—No. Might as well look the devil in the face, sonny. There’s no water here. Not a damn drop. No—nor a scrap to eat, neither. Only the damn sun. [Weakly—touching the skin of his face with trembling fingers.] God! My face is like the raw inside of a wet hide! If it’d only rain! [After a pause—kindly.] But how are you, eh? Had a good sleep?

Abel—I was dreamin’ awful. [With a sudden, shrill agony—his lips twitching.] I need a drink of water—something awful! My mouth’s burnin’ up. [With tremulous pleading.] Say, ain’t you got ’nother drink left?—honest, ain’t you?

Butler—[Looking around him cautiously.] Not so loud! [Fixing his eyes sternly on the boy.] This is a dead secret, mind! You’ll swear you won’t blab—not to him?

Abel—Sure, Butts, sure! Gawd strike me dead!

Butler—[Takes a pint bottle from the hip-pocket of his pants. It is about half full of water.] He don’t know I’ve got this, remember! He—and the rest—they’d kill me like a dog—and you too, sonny—remember that!

Abel—Sure! I ain’t goin’ to tell ’em, Butts. [Stretching out his hands frenziedly.] Aw, give it to me, Butts! Give me a drink, for Christ’s sake!

Butler—No, you don’t! I’ll hold it for you. Only a few drops. You’d have it all down your throat. And we’ve got to be careful. It’s got to last ’til the ship comes past that’ll pick us up. That’s the only hope. [Holding the bottle at arm’s length from the boy.] Hands down, now—or you don’t get a drop! [The boy lets his hands drop to his sides. Butler puts the bottle carefully to his lips, and allows the boy two gulps—then snatches it away.] That’s all now. More later. [He takes one gulp himself, and making a tremendous effort of will, jerks the bottle from his lips, and corking it quickly, thrusts it back in his pocket and heaves a shuddering sigh.]

Abel—Aw, more! Just another swaller——

Butler—[Determinedly.] No!

Abel—[Crying weakly.] Yuh dirty mut!

Butler—[Quietly.] There! Don’t get riled. It only makes you hotter—and thirstier. [The boy sinks back exhausted and closes his eyes. Butler begins to talk in a more assured voice, as if the sip of water had renewed his courage.] That’ll save us yet, that bit of water. A lucky notion of mine to think of it—at the last moment. They were just lowering the boots. I could hear you calling to me to hurry and come. They didn’t care if I went down with that stinking whaling ship or not, damn them! What did the dirty cook matter to them? But I thought of filling this bottle. It’d been lying there in the galley for two years almost. I’d had it on my hip, full of whiskey, that night in Oakland when I was shanghied. So I filled it out of a bucket before I ran to the boat. Lucky I did, son—for you and me—not for them—damn ’em!

Abel—[Struggling to a sitting posture, evidently strengthened by his drink.] Gee if the Old Man was wise you got it——

Butler—He won’t know—nor Horne, nor Cates, nor Jimmy Kanaka, neither. [As if in self-justification.] Why should I tell ’em, eh? Did I ever get anything better than a kick or a curse from one of them? [Vindictively.] Would they give it to me if they had it? They’d see me in hell first! And besides, it’s too late for them. They’re mad as hatters right now, the four of them. They ain’t had a drop since three nights back, when the water in the cask gave out and we rowed up against this island in the dark. Think of it, and them out walking and roasting in the sun all day, looking for water where there ain’t any. Wouldn’t you be crazy? [Suddenly he laughs queerly.] Didn’t you hear them shouting and yelling like lunatics just before I came?

Abel—I thought I heard something—on’y maybe I was dreamin’.

Butler—It’s them that are doing the dreaming. I was with them. I had to go. [With rising anger.] He kicked me awake—and every time I tried to get away he beat me back. He’s strong yet—[With threatening vindictiveness.]—but he can’t last long, damn him! [Controlling himself, goes on with his story excitedly.] Well, we went looking for water—on this sand pile. Then Jimmy Kanaka saw a boat sunk half under down inside the reef—a Malay canoe, only bigger. They got down in her the best way they could, up to their waists in water. They thought there might be something to drink on her. I was trying to sneak off, scared to go in on account of sharks. All of a sudden they gave an awful yell. I thought they’d found something to drink and ran back. They was all standing about a box they’d forced open, yelling and cursing and out of their heads completely. When I looked I seen the box was full of all sorts of metal junk—bracelets and bands and necklaces that I guess the Malays wear. Nothing but brass and copper, and bum imitations of diamonds and things—not worth a dam; and there they were, shouting with joy and slapping each other on the back. And that hellion of a skipper shouts at me: “Get out of this! No share here for a stinking cook!” he yells. I didn’t say nothing but just picked up some of the stuff to make sure. Then I told him straight. “This ain’t gold. It’s brass and copper—not worth a damn.” God, he got wild! I had to run, or he’d knifed me—then and there. That was when I woke you up.

Abel—And ain’t it worth nothin’, honest? How’d you know it ain’t?

Butler—D’you think I ain’t learned to know gold in my time? And polished enough copper and brass to know them, too? Just as if it was gold it’d do ’em any good! You can’t drink gold, can you? [With sudden violence.] It serves ’em right, all that’s happened and going to happen. Kicks and smacks in the face if I even winked an eye—two years of it! And me shanghied when I was drunk—taken away from a good job and forced to cook the swill on a rotten whaler. Oh, I’ll pay him back for it! His damn ship is wrecked and lost to him—that’s the first of it. I’ll see him rot and die—and the three with him! But you and me’ll be saved! D’you know why I’ve let you go halves on this water, instead of hogging it all myself? It’s because you were the only one on board that didn’t treat me like a dog—and they kicked and beat you, too. We were in the same boat. And now we’ll get even! Them and their dirty box of junk! [He sinks back, exhausted by this outburst.]

Abel—[Suddenly, in a piteous voice.] Gee, I wisht I was back home again!

Butler—You’ll get back. We both will. [He closes his eyes. After a pause—weakly.] When I close my eyes, everything gets to rocking under me, like I was in that open boat again. I won’t forget these four days in a hurry. Up and down—— Nothing but sun and water. [They are both silent, leaning with closed eyes against the bole of the tree, panting exhaustedly. A murmur of men’s voices comes from the right, rear, and gradually get nearer.]

Abel—[Opening his eyes with a start.] Butts! I hear ’em comin’!

Butler—[Listening, wide-eyed, for a moment.] Yes, it’s them. [He gets to his feet weakly.] Come, let’s get out of this. [Abel staggers to his feet. They both move to the left. Butler shades his eyes with his hands and looks toward the beach.] Look! They’re dragging along that box of junk with ’em, the damn fools! [Warningly.] They’re crazy as hell. Don’t give ’em no chance to pick on you, d’you hear? They’d stop at nothing when they’re this way. [There is a scuffling of heavy footsteps in the sand, and Captain Bartlett appears, followed by Horne, who in turn is followed by Cates and Jimmy Kanaka. Bartlett is a tall, huge-framed figure of a man, dressed in a blue double-breasted coat, pants of the same material, and rubber sea-boots turned down from the knees. In spite of the ravages of hunger and thirst there is still a suggestion of immense strength in his heavy-muscled body. His head is massive, thickly covered with tangled, iron-grey hair. His face is large, bony, and leather-tanned, with a long aquiline nose and a gash of a mouth shadowed by a bristling grey mustache. His broad jaw sticks out at an angle of implacable stubbornness. Bushy grey brows overhang the obsessed glare of his sombre dark eyes. Silas Horne is a thin, parrot-nosed, angular old man, his lean face marked by a life-time of crass lusts and mean cruelty. He is dressed in grey cotton trousers, and a singlet torn open across his hairy chest. The exposed skin of his arms and shoulders and chest has been blistered and seared by the sun. A cap is on his head. Cates is squat and broad-chested, with thick, stumpy legs and arms. His square, stupid face, with its greedy pig’s eyes, is terribly pock-marked. He is gross and bestial, an unintelligent brute. He is dressed in dungaree pants and a dirty white sailor’s blouse, and wears a brown cap. Jimmy Kanaka is a tall, sinewy, bronzed young Islander. He wears only a loin cloth and a leather belt with a sheath-knife. The last two are staggering beneath the weight of a heavy inlaid chest. The eyes of the three white men are wild. They pant exhaustedly, their legs trembling with weakness beneath them. Their lips are puffed and cracked, their voices muffled by their swollen tongues. But there is a mad air of happiness, of excitement, about their scorched faces.]

Bartlett—[In a crooning, monotonous voice.] It’s heavy, I know, heavy—that chest. Up, bullies! Up with her! [He flings himself in the shade, resting his back against the tree, and points to the sand at his feet.] Put ’er there, bullies—there where I kin see!

Horne—[Echoing his words mechanically.] Put’er there!

Cates—[In thick, stupid tones.] Aye-aye, sir! Down she goes, Jimmy! [They set the chest down.]

Bartlett—Sit down, lads, sit down. Ye’ve earned your spell of rest. [The three men throw themselves on the sand in attitudes of spent weariness. Bartlett’s eyes are fixed gloatingly on the chest. There is a silence suddenly broken by Cates, who leaps to a kneeling position with a choked cry.]

Cates—[His eyes staring at the Captain with fierce insistence.] I want a drink—water! [The others are startled into a rigid, dazzed attention. Horne’s lips move painfully in a soundless repetition of the word. There is a pause. Then Bartlett strikes the side of his head with his fist, as if to drive this obsession from his brain. Butler and Abel stand looking at them with frightened eyes.]

Bartlett—[Having regained control over himself, in a determined voice, deep-toned and menacing.] If ye speak that word ever again, Ben Cates—if ye say it once again—ye’ll be food for the sharks! Ye hear?

Cates—[Terrified.] Yes, sir. [He collapses limply on the sand again. Horne and the Kanaka relax hopelessly.]

Bartlett—[With heavy scorn.] Are ye a child to take on like a sick woman—cryin’ for what ye know we’ve not got? Can’t ye stand up under a little thirst like a man? [Resolutely.] There’ll be water enough—if ye’ll wait and keep a stiff upper lip on ye. We’ll all be picked up today. I’ll stake my word on it. This state o’ things can’t last. [His eyes fall on the chest.] Ye ought to be singin’ ’stead o’ cryin’—after the find we’ve made. What’s the lack of water amount to—when ye’ve gold before you? [With mad exultation.] Gold! Enough of it in your share alone to buy ye rum, and wine, and women, too, for the rest o’ your life!

Cates—[Straightening up to a sitting posture—his small eyes staring at the box fascinatedly—in a stupid mumble.] Aye—aye—rum and wine!

Bartlett—[Half closing his eyes as if the better to enjoy his vision.] Yes, rum and wine and women for you and Horne and Jimmy. No more hard work on the dirty sea for ye, bullies, but a full pay-day in your pockets to spend each day o’ the year. [The three strain their ears, listening eagerly. Even Butler and Abel advance a step or two toward him, as if they, too, were half hypnotized.] And Cates grumbling because he’s thirsty! I’d be the proper one to complain—if complainin’ there was to do! Ain’t I lost my ship and the work o’ two years with her? And what have ye lost, all three, but a few rags o’ clothes? [With savage emphasis.] I tell ye, I be glad the Triton went down! [He taps the box with his fingers.] They’s more in this than ever was earned by all the whalin’ ships afloat. They’s gold—heavy and solid—and diamonds and emeralds and rubies!—red and green, they be.

Cates—[Licking his lips.] Aye, I seen ’em there—and emeralds be green, I know, and sell for a ton of gold!

Bartlett—[As if he hadn’t heard and was dreaming out loud to himself.] Rum and wine for you three, and rest for me. Aye, I’ll rest to home ’til the day I die. Aye, woman, I be comin’ home now for good. Aye, Nat and Sue, your father be comin’ home for the rest o’ his life! No more stinkin’ blubber on the deck. I’ll give up whalin’ like ye’ve always been askin’ me, Sarah. Aye, I’ll go to meetin’ with ye on a Sunday like ye’ve always prayed I would. We’ll make the damn neighbors open their eyes, curse ’em! Carriages and silks for ye—they’ll be nothin’ too good—and for Sue and the boy. I’ve been dreamin’ o’ this in my sleep for years. I never give a damn ’bout the oil—that’s just trade—but I always hoped on some voyage I’d pick up ambergris—a whole lot of it—and that’s worth gold!

Horne—[His head bobbing up from his chest—drowsily.] Aye, ambergris! It’s costly truck.

Butler—[In a whisper to the boy—cautiously.] There! Wasn’t I right? Mad as hatters, all of ’em! Come on away!

Abel—[Staring at the Captain fascinatedly.] No. I wanter see ’em open it.

Butler—Look out! You’ll be going batty yourself, first thing you know. [But he also stays.]

Bartlett—[His voice more and more that of a somnambulist.] It’s time I settled down to home with ye, Sarah, after twenty years o’ whalin’. They’s plenty o’ big trees on my place, bullies, and shade and green grass, and a cool wind off the sea. [He shakes off the growing drowsiness and glares about him in a rage.] Hell’s fire! What crazy truck be I thinkin’ of? [But he and the others sink back immediately into stupor. After a pause he begins to relate a tale in a droning voice.] Years ago, when I was whalin’ out o’ New Bedford—just after I got my first ship, it was—a man come to me—Spanish-looking, he was—and wanted to charter my ship and me go shares. He showed me a map o’ some island off the coast of South America somewhere. They was a cross marked on it where treasure had been buried by the old pirates. That was what he said. But I was a fool. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t see’s I could take a chance. He got old Scott’s schooner—finally. She sailed and never was heard o’ since. But I’ve never forgot him and his map. And often I’ve thought if I’d ’a’ went that vige—— [He straightens up and shouts with aggressive violence.] But here she be! Run right into it—without no map nor nothin’. Gold and diamonds and all—all them things he said was there—there they be in front o’ our eyes! [To the now alert Jimmy.] Open ’er up, Jimmy!

Jimmy—[Getting up—in his soft voice.] Aye, Captain. [He reaches down to lift the lid.]

Bartlett—[A sudden change of feeling comes over him, and he knocks Jimmy’s arm aside savagely.] Hands off, ye dog! I’m takin’ care o’ this chest, and no man’s hand’s goin’ to touch it but mine!

Jimmy—[Stepping back docilely—in the same unmoved, soft tone.] Aye, Captain. [He squats down to the left of the chest.]

Bartlett—[Seeming suddenly to notice the cook for the first time.] So there you be, eh? [His voice growing thick with rage.] I ain’t forgot what ye said down by the shore there! Lucky for ye I didn’t catch ye then! “Brass and copper—junk,” ye said—“not gold! Not worth a damn,” ye said! Ye blasted son o’ a liar! No share for ye! I’ll not forget. And keep your distance o’ me if ye want your hide! [Looking at Abel.] Ye’ve been tellin’ that boy your lies too, I kin tell by the look o’ him. [Sternly.] Come here, boy!

Abel—[Advances with faltering steps.] Y-yes, s-sir?

Bartlett—Open up that chest! Open it up, ye brat! [With a desperate movement of fear Abel reaches down and flings open the lid of the chest. As he does so, Bartlett’s huge hand fastens on the collar of his coat, and holds him with face bent over the box. Horne, Cates, and Jimmy Kanaka pull themselves close, their necks craning for a look inside. Butler takes a few steps toward them.]

Butler—[In a low uncertain tone.] Maybe I was wrong, Captain Bartlett, sir.

Bartlett—[Shaking the terror-stricken boy.] What d’ye see there, ye little swab? What d’ye see there?

Abel—Aw—leggo—I’m chokin’!

Bartlett—[Grimly.] Ye’ll choke in earnest if ye don’t answer me. What d’ye see? Is it gold? Answer me—is it gold?

Abel—[Stutteringly.] Yes—sure—gold—I see it!

Bartlett—[Thrusts him away. The boy staggers and falls to the sand. Bartlett turns to Butler triumphantly.] Ye see, ye liar? Gold! Gold! Even a child can tell it at a look. [With a sombre menace in his tone.] But ye—don’t believe—do ye?

Butler—[Frightenedly.] Maybe I was wrong, sir. I—didn’t—look very careful.

Bartlett—Come here! [He stands up, his back against the tree.] Come here!

Butler—Yes, sir. [But he looks about him shiftily, as if to run away.]

Bartlett—Jimmy! [The Kanaka leaps to his feet.] Knife him, Jimmy, if he tries to run.

Jimmy—[His hand goes to his knife, his dark eyes lighting up with savagery—in his soft voice.] Aye, Captain!

Bartlett—[To the trembling cook.] Come here!

Butler—[Goes to him with the courage of desperation.] Yes, sir.

Bartlett—[Pointing to the contents of the chest.] Is it gold—or not?

Butler—If I can feel of one——

Bartlett—Pick one up.

Butler—[Picks up a heavy anklet encrusted with colored glass, looks at it for a minute—then feigning great assurance.] I was wrong, Captain. It’s gold all right enough—worth all kinds of money, I bet.

Bartlett—[With mad triumph.] Ha! Ye’ve come to your senses, have ye? Too late, ye swab! No share for ye! And here’s to teach ye for lyin’ to me before! [His fist jerks out from his side, and Butler is knocked sprawling on the sand, where he lies groaning for a moment, the anklet still clutched in his hand. The boy gives a gasp of fright and scampers off, left.]

Bartlett—That’ll learn ye! [He sits down beside the chest. The others crouch close. Bartlett shoves in both of his hands—in a tone of mad gloating.] Gold! Better’n whaling, ain’t she, boys? Better’n ambergris, even if I ever had luck to find any! [Butler staggers to his feet. He examines the anklet with contemptuous scorn and even bites it to make sure. Then he edges stealthily toward the left. A sudden transformation comes over his face and he glowers at the Captain with hatred, his features distorted with fury.]

Jimmy Kanaka—[Pointing to Butler.] He got him, Captain!

Bartlett—[Glancing at the cook with contemptuous scorn.] Sneakin’ away with that piece o’ the gold, be ye? Ye thievin’ swine! Ye know right enough it’s gold now, don’t ye? Well, ye kin keep it—for your share for speakin’ the truth that once.

Horne—[His cupidity protesting.] Don’t give it to him, sir! It’s so much the less for us that worked for it when he did nothin’!

Butler—[Overcome by hysterical rage—stammering.] Who asked you for it—eh? Who—wants the dam thing? Not me! No! You damned lunatics! You oughter all be in the asylum? [Holding the anklet out contemptuously.] Gold? Ha-ha! This junk? I just bit it to make sure. Gold? Brass, that’s what—and pieces of glass! Junk! Not worth a dam. Here! Take it! You can have it! [He flings it on the sand before them. Bartlett snatches it up protectingly.]

Bartlett—[In a frenzy.] Jimmy! [But Butler runs off left with a terrified cry. Jimmy springs to his feet and stands with his hand on his knife, waiting for a further order.]

Jimmy—[Eagerly.] I go catch—go stick him, Captain?

Bartlett—[Pausing—with a frown.] No. They’s time enough for that—if need be. Sit down. [Jimmy sits down again with a childish air of sulking. Bartlett stares at the treasure, continuing to frown, as if Butler’s action had made him uneasy, bewildered and confused him. He mutters half to himself.] Queer! Queer! He threw it back as if ’twas a chunk of mud! He knew—and yet he said he didn’t want it. Junk, he called it—and he knows it’s gold! He said ’twas gold himself a second back. He’s queer. Why would he say junk when he knows it’s gold? D’ye think—he don’t believe?

Horne—He was mad because you knocked him down.

Bartlett—[Shaking his head grimly.] It ain’t the first time I’ve knocked him down; but he never spoke up to me—like that—before. No, it’s somethin’ else is wrong with him—somethin’.

Horne—No share for him, you told him sir. That’s what wrong with him.

Bartlett—[Again shaking his head.] No. His eyes—It’s somethin’ he’s got in his head—somethin’ he’s hidin’! His share—maybe he thinks he’ll get his share anyway, in spite o’ us! Maybe he thinks his share wouldn’t be all he wants! Maybe he thinks we’ll die o’ hunger and thirst before we get picked up—and that he’ll live—and then—he’ll come in for the whole chestful! [Suddenly springing to his feet in a rage, convinced that he has found the truth.] Hell’s fire! That’s it, bullies! That’s his sneakin’ plan! To watch us die—and steal it from us!

Cates—[Rising to his knees and shaking his hand threateningly above his head.] Tell Jimmy to knife him, sir! Tell Jimmy—I ain’t got a knife, or I’d do it myself. [He totters weakly to his feet.]

Jimmy—[Eagerly.] You speak, I stick him, Captain. I stick boy, too.

Cates—[Weakening.] I’m weak, but I kin do for him yet. I’m weak—— [His knees sag under him. He pleads piteously.] If I’d only a drink to put some strength in me! If I’d only a sup o’ water, I’d do for him! [Turning, as if to stagger down toward the beach.] There must be water. Let’s look again. I’ll go look—— [But the effort he makes is too much for his strength and he falls to the sand, panting with open mouth.]

Bartlett—[Summoning his strength—sternly.] Put a clapper on that jaw of yours, Cates, or I’ll do it for ye!

Cates—[Blubbering.] If we don’t find water—he’ll watch us die.

Jimmy—[Insinuatingly.] Better me knife cook fella—kill boy, too!

Bartlett—Will killin’ ’em give us drink, ye fools? [After a pause, he shakes his head as if to drive off some thought, and mutters.] No more o’ that! [Suddenly, in a tone of sharp command.] No more o’ that, I say! We’re keepin’ no right watch for ships. Go aloft on that tree, Jimmy—and damn quick! Take a look and see if ye can sight a sail. [Kanaka shins quickly up the bole of the coco palm to the top and looks out on all sides of him. The others rise painfully to their feet and gaze up at him with awakened hope.]

Jimmy—[Suddenly, in a glad voice.] I see um—see sail, Captain.

Cates—[Waving his arms frenziedly.] Sail—ho!

Jimmy—Look plenty like trade schooner, Captain. She no change course she fetch plenty close by here. She make full sail, she got plenty fella wind out there, she come quick.

Horne—[Clapping Cates on the back.] Headin’ straight for us, Cates, d’you hear?

Bartlett—How far d’ye reckon she be?

Jimmy—She’s five, six fella mile, Captain.

Bartlett—Come down. [The Islander slides down. Bartlett exclaims exultantly.] Didn’t I tell ye? In the nick o’ time. When she makes in close we’ll go down to the reef and yell and wave at her. They’ll see! The luck’s with us today! [His eyes fall on the treasure and he starts.] But now—what’s to do with this chest—the gold?

Horne—[Quickly.] You ain’t going to tell them on the schooner about it?

Cates—They’d claim to share with us.

Horne—More like they’d steal it and knife us in the bargain. I know the kind on them schooners.

Bartlett—[Scornfully.] D’ye think I’m cracked? No, we’ll bury it here.

Cates—[Regretfully.] Leave it behind for anyone to find?

Bartlett—We’ll bury it deep, where hell itself won’t find it—and we’ll make a map o’ this island. [He takes a sheet of paper and a stub of pencil from his pocket—pointing to the foot of the tree.] Dig a hole here—you, Horne and Jimmy—and dig it deep. [The two head down and commence to hollow out the sand with their hands. Bartlett draws on the paper.] There’s the lagoon—and the reef—and here’s this tree—the only one on the island—’twould be hard to miss. [To Cates, who is peering over his shoulder.] And here where the tree is, d’ye see, Cates, I’ll make a cross where the gold is hid.

Horne—[Over his shoulder, without ceasing his work.] How d’ye know the lay o’ this island—to find it again?

Bartlett—By the last reckonin’ o’ the Triton’s. It’s writ on a page I tore from the log-book. And from there we headed due north in the boat, unless the compass lied—four days—a hundred and fifty miles, I reckon. [Exultantly.] Oh, all hell’d not stop me from findin’ this place again when I know the gold’s here. Let us once get home and I’ll fit out a small schooner the four of us can sail, and we’ll come back here to dig it up. It won’t be long, I swear to ye!

Horne—[Straightening up.] This deep enough, sir?

Bartlett—It looks to be.

Jimmy—[Who has straightened up and is looking off left—suddenly points excitedly.] He look, Captain! Cook fella, he look here! Boy he look, too! They look plenty too much, Captain! [All four stand staring off at Butler and the boy, whose presence on the island they have forgotten in their mad excitement.]

Cates—[In stupid dismay.] They’ll know where it’s hid, sir!

Horne—They’ll tell ’em on the schooner!

Cates—[Wildly.] We’ve got to do for ’em, Captain! Gimme your knife, Jimmy—your knife—— [He stumbles toward the Islander, who pushes him aside brusquely, looking questioningly toward the Captain.]

Bartlett—[Who has been standing motionless, as if stunned by this forgotten complication—slowly.] There they be watchin’ us, the sneakin’ dogs! Sit down, an’ they won’t see. [They all squat in the sand.] I was forgettin’ they was here. [Striking his knee with clenched fist.] We’ve got to do somethin’ damn quick! That schooner’ll be up soon where they kin sight her—and they’ll wave and yell then—and she’ll see ’em!

Horne—And good-bye to the gold for us!

Jimmy—[Eagerly.] You say fella word, Captain, me kill um quick. They no make plenty cry for schooner! They keep damn still plenty too much!

Bartlett—[Looking at the Islander with mad cunning but replying only to Horne.] Aye, it’s good-bye to the gold, Horne. That scum of a cook—he’s made a mock o’ us—sayin’ it wasn’t gold when he knew it was—he’ll tell ’em—he’ll get joy o’ tellin’ ’em!

Horne—And that scrub of a boy—he’s no better. He’ll be in with him neck and crop.

Cates—[Hoarsely.] Knife ’em—and be done with it—I say!

Bartlett—Or, if they don’t tell the schooner’s skipper it’ll only be because they’re plannin’ to come back themselves—before we kin—and dig it up. That cook—there’s somethin’ queer in his mind—somethin’ he was hidin’—pretendin’ not to believe. What d’ye think, Horne?

Horne—I think—time’s gettin’ short—and talkin’ won’t do no good. [Insinuatingly.] They’d do for us soon enough if they was able.

Bartlett—Aye, murder was plain in his eyes when he looked at me.

Horne—[Lowering his voice to a whisper.] Tell Jimmy—Captain Bartlett—is what I say!

Bartlett—It’s agin the law, Silas Horne!

Horne—The law don’t reach to this island.

Bartlett—[Monotonously.] It’s against the law a captain’s sworn to keep wherever he sails. They ain’t refused duty—nor mutinied.

Horne—Who’ll know they ain’t? They’re trying to steal what’s yours—that’s worse’n mutiny. [As a final persuasion.] And Jimmy’s a nigger—and under no laws. And he’s stronger’n you are. You couldn’t stop ’im.

Bartlett—Aye—I couldn’t prevent——

Jimmy—[Eagerly.] I fix um, Captain, they no tell! [Bartlett doesn’t answer, but stares at the treasure. Horne makes violent motions to Jimmy to go. The Islander stares at his master’s face. Then, seeming to read the direct command there, he grunts with satisfaction, and pulling his knife from it’s sheath, he goes stealthily off left. Cates raises himself on his haunches to watch the Islander’s movements. Horne and Bartlett sit still in a strained immobility, their eyes on the chest.]

Cates—[In an excited whisper.] I see ’em! They’re sittin’ with their backs this way! [A slight pause.] There’s Jimmy. He’s crawlin’ on his hands behind ’em. They don’t notice—he’s right behind—almost atop o’ them. [A pause. Cates gives a fiendish grunt.] Ugh! [Butler’s muffled cry comes from the left.] Right in the middle of the back! The cook’s done! The boy’s runnin’! [There is a succession of quick screams from the boy, the padding of feet running toward them, the fall of a body, and the boy’s dying groan.]

Horne—[With satisfaction.] It’s done, sir!

Bartlett—[Slowly.] I spoke no word, remember that, Silas Horne!

Horne—[Cunningly.] Nor me neither, sir. Jimmy took it on himself. If blame there is—and who’d blame him for it?—it’s on him.

Bartlett—[Gloomily.] I spoke no word! [Jimmy returns noiselessly from the left.]

Jimmy—[Grinning with savage pride.] I fix um fella plenty, Captain. They no tell. They no open mouth plenty too much!

Cates—[Maudlinly.] You’re a man, Jimmy—a man with guts to him—even if you’re a—— [He babbles incoherently.]

Jimmy—[As the Captain does not look at him.] I go climb fella tree, Captain? I make look for schooner?

Bartlett—[Rousing himself with an effort.] Yes—go up. [The Islander climbs the tree.]

Horne—[Getting to his feet—eagerly.] Where away, Jimmy?

Jimmy—She come, Captain, she come plenty quick.

Horne—[Looking in the direction Jimmy indicates.] I kin see her tops’ls from here, sir. Look!

Bartlett—[Getting to his feet—stares out to sea.] Aye! There she be—and makin’ towards us fast. [In a flash his sombre preoccupation is gone, and he is commander once more. He puts the anklet in his hand into his coat pocket—harshly.] Come down out o’ that? They’s work to do. [Jimmy clambers down.] Did ye leave—them—lyin’ in plain sight on the open sand?

Jimmy—Yes. I no touch um, Captain.

Bartlett—Then ye’ll touch ’em now. Go, bury ’em, cover ’em up with sand. And mind ye make a good job o’ it that none’ll see. Jump now!

Jimmy—[Obediently.] I go, Captain. [He hurries off left.]

Bartlett—Down to the reef with ye, Horne! [Giving the prostrate Cates a kick.] Up out o’ that, Cates! Go with Horne, and when ye see the schooner hull up, wave to ’em, and yell like mad, d’ye hear?

Horne—Aye, aye, sir!

Bartlett—I’ll stay here and bury the gold. It’s best to be quick about it! They may turn a spyglass on us when they raise the island from deck! Off with ye! [He gives Cates another kick.]

Cates—[Groaning.] I’m sick! [Incoherently.] Can’t—report for duty—this watch. [With a shout.] Water!

Bartlett—[Contemptuously.] Ye dog! Give him a hand, Horne.

Horne—[Putting a hand under his shoulder.] Up, man! We’re to signal the schooner. There’ll be water on board o’ her—barrels of it!

Cates—[Aroused, scrambles to his feet, violently shaking off Horne’s hand.] Water aboard o’ her! [His staring eyes catch the schooner’s sails on the horizon. He breaks into a staggering run and disappears down toward the beach, right rear, waving his arms wildly and shouting.] Ahoy! Ahoy! Water! [Horne walks out quickly after him.] [Left alone, Bartlett, after a quick glance around, sinks on his knees beside the chest and shoves both hands into it. From the chest comes a metallic clink as he fingers the pieces in his hands gloatingly.] Ye’re safe now! There’s none to tell left livin’! He’s dead—damn him!—that lied about ye. And ye’ll rest safe here till I come back for ye! [In a dreaming tone, his eyes fixed before him in an ecstatic vision.] No more whalin’ on the dirty seas! Rest to home! Gold! I’ve been dreamin’ o’ it all my life! Aye—we’ll rest now, Sarah! Your father be a rich man, Nat and Sue! [Shaking himself—savagely.] Ye fool! What drivel be ye talkin’? Loosin’ your senses, be ye? Time ye was picked up! Lucky! [He shoves down the lid and places the chest in the hole. He pushes the sand in on top of it, whispering hoarsely.] Lay safe, d’ye hear. For I’ll be back for ye! Aye—in spite of hell I’ll dig ye up again! [The voices of Horne and Jimmy can be heard from the distance shouting as

[The Curtain Falls]

ACT TWO

Scene—Interior of an old boat-shed on the wharf of the Bartlett place on the California coast. In the rear, a double doorway looking out over the end of the wharf to the bay with the open sea beyond. On the left, two windows, and another door, opening on the dock. Near this door, a cot with blankets and a pillow without a slip. In the center, front, a table with a bottle and glasses on it, and three cane-bottomed chairs. On the right, a fishing dory. Here and there about the shed all sorts of odds and ends pertaining to a ship—old anchors, ropes, tackle, paint-pots, old spars, etc.

It is late afternoon of a day six months later. Sunlight filters feebly through the stained, cobwebby window panes.

As the curtain rises, Bartlett and Silas Horne are discovered. Horne is in working clothes of paint-stained dungaree. If his sufferings on the island have left any marks on his dry wizened face, they are undiscoverable. In Bartlett, however, the evidence is marked. His hair has turned white. There are deep hollows under his cheek-bones. His jaw and tight-lipped mouth, express defiant determination, as if he were fighting back some weakness inside himself, a weakness found in his eyes, which have something in them of fear, of a wishing to avoid other eyes. He is dressed much the same as when on the island. He sits by the table, center, his abstracted gaze bent on the floor before him.

Horne—[Who is evidently waiting for the Captain to my something—after a pause, glancing at him uneasily.] I’d best be gettin’ back aboard the schooner, sir. [Receiving no answer he starts for the door on the left.]

Bartlett—[Rousing himself with an effort.] Wait. [After a pause.] The full tide’s at dawn tomorrow, ye said?

Horne—Yes, sir.

Bartlett—They know we’ll be sailin’ then, don’t they—Cates and Jimmy?

Horne—Yes, sir. They’re all ready. Oh, Cates and Jimmy’ll be glad o’ the word—and me, too, sir. [With a greedy grin.] It’s all we’ve been talkin’ of since ye brought us down here—diggin’ up the gold!

Bartlett—[Passionately.] Aye, the gold! We’ll have it before long, now, I reckon. That schooner—the way we’ve fitted her up—she’d take a man safe to the Pole and back! We’ll drop anchor here with the chest on board in six months, unless—— [Hesitates.]

Horne—[Uneasily.] What, sir?

Bartlett—[Brusquely.] The weather, ye fool! Can ye take count before o’ storms an’ calms?

Horne—We’ll trust to luck for that. [Glancing at the Captain curiously.] And speakin’ o’ luck, sir—the schooner ain’t been christened yet.

Bartlett—[Betraying a sudden, fierce determination.] She will be!

Horne—There’d be no luck for a ship sailin’ out without a name.

Bartlett—She’ll have a name, I tell ye! A name that’ll take all curse away and leave her clean. She’ll be named the Sarah Allen, and Sarah’ll christen her herself.

Horne—It oughter been done, by rights, when we launched her a month back.

Bartlett—[Sternly.] I know that as well as ye. [After a pause.] She wasn’t willin’ to do it then. Women has queer notions—when they’re sick, like. [Defiantly—as if he were addressing someone outside of the room.] But Sarah’ll be willin’ now! She’ll be willin’ in spite o’—— [Catching himself and abruptly lowering his voice.] The schooner’ll be christened tomorrow at dawn afore she sails.

Horne—Yes, sir. [He again turns to go, as if he were anxious to get away.]

Bartlett—Wait! There’s somethin’ else I want to ask ye. Nat, he’s been hangin’ round the schooner all his spare time o’ late. I seen him talkin’ to you and Cates and Jimmy. [With rising anger.] I hope ye’ve remembered what I ordered ye, all three. Not a word o’ it to him! I said I’d keep him out o’ this, for his own good, mind! And if I thought any of ye—— [His fist is raised threateningly, and he glares savagely at Horne.]

Horne—[Retreating a step—hastily.] No fear o’ that, sir! We’ve been keerful. But it’s hard. He’s a sharp one, Nat is. And when we tells him the schooner’s fitted out for tradin’ in the islands, he just laughs. He’s gettin’ the wind on somethin’—without any o’ us sayin’ a word.

Bartlett—[In relieved tones.] Let him s’spect all he’s a mind to—as long as he don’t know. It ain’t that I’m afeerd to tell him o’ the gold, Silas Horne. He’ll share that, anyway. [Slowly.] It’s them—other things—I’d keep him clear of.

Horne—[Immediately guessing what he means—reassuringly.] We was all out o’ our heads with thirst and sun when them things happened, sir.

Bartlett—Mad? Aye! But I ain’t forgot—them two. [Harshly.] I’d rather be you nor me, Silas Horne. You be too rotten bad to care. And I’d rather be Cates or Jimmy. Cates be too dull to remember, and Jimmy be proud as a boy o’ what he done. [He represses a shudder—then goes on slowly.] Do they ever come back to you—when you’re asleep, I mean?

Horne—[Pretending mystification.] Who’s that, sir?

Bartlett—[With sombre emphasis.] That cook and that boy. They come to me. I’m gettin’ to be afeered o’ goin’ to sleep—not ’feered o’ them, I don’t mean. [With sudden defiant bravado.] Not all the ghosts out o’ hell kin keep me from a thing I’ve set my mind on. [Collecting himself.] But I’ve waked up talkin’ out loud—to them—and I’m afeerd there might be someone hear me. That’s why I’ve been sleepin’ down here to the boat-house all alone.

Horne—[Uneasily—with an attempt to be reassuring.] You ain’t all cured o’ that sun and thirst on the island yet, sir.

Bartlett—[Evidently reassured—roughly.] O’ course! D’ye think I’d really believe in things in nightmares? [With an attempt at conviviality.] Sit down a bit, Horne, and take a grog. [Horne does so. Bartlett pours out a half-tumbler full of rum for himself and shoves the bottle over to Horne.]

Horne—Luck to our vige, sir.

Bartlett—Aye, luck! [They drink. Bartlett leans over and taps Horne on the arm.] Aye, it takes time to get cured o’ thirst and sun! Lucky that tradin’ schooner picked us up the time she did.

Horne—If she hadn’t—we’d been as dead men—as them two.

Bartlett—[Somberly—after a pause.] I spoke no word, Silas Horne, d’ye remember?

Horne—Nor me. Jimmy did it alone. [Craftily.] We’d all three swear Bible oaths to that in any court. And even if ye’d given the word, there ain’t no good thinkin’ more o’ it, sir. Didn’t they deserve all they got—that thief o’ a cook and that boy? Wasn’t they plottin’ on the sly to steal the gold?

Bartlett—[His eyes gleaming.] Aye!

Horne—And when you said he’d get no share of it, didn’t he lie to your face that it wasn’t gold—thinkin’ we’d leave it be and he’d git it all for himself?

Bartlett—[With sudden rage.] Aye, brass and junk, he said, the lyin’ scum! That’s what he keeps sayin’ when I see him in sleep! He didn’t believe—makin’ a mock o’ me—an’ then he owned up himself ’twas gold! He knew! He lied a-purpose! He was a cunnin’ rat—a thief ashore afore they shipped him with us, I reckon.

Horne—[Eagerly.] Most like, sir.

Bartlett—[Rising to his feet—with confident defiance.] They deserved no better nor they got. Let ’em rot! [Pouring out another drink for himself and Horne.] We’ll drink, an’ then ye get back to the ship. Tell Cates and Jimmy we sail at dawn—sure! [He drinks.]

Horne—Luck, sir! [He drinks. There is a knock at the door on the left followed by Mrs. Bartlett’s voice calling feebly, “Isaiah! Isaiah!” Bartlett starts but makes no answer. He seems suddenly sunk in gloom again. Horne turns to him questioningly.] It’s Mrs. Bartlett, sir. Shall I open the door?

Bartlett—No. I ain’t aimin’ to see her—yet awhile. [Then with sudden reasonless rage.] Let her in, damn ye! [Horne goes and unhooks the door. Mrs. Bartlett enters. She is a slight, slender little woman of fifty. Sickness, or the inroads of a premature old age, have bowed her shoulders, whitened her hair, and forced her to walk feebly with the aid of a cane. A resolute spirit still flashes from her eyes, however, and there is a look of fixed determination on her face. She stands gazing at her husband. There is something accusing in her stare.]

Bartlett—[Avoiding her eyes—brusquely.] Well? What is it ye want o’ me, Sarah?

Mrs. B.—I want to speak with you alone, Isaiah.

Horne—I’ll be gettin’ back aboard, sir. [Starts to go.]

Bartlett—[In a tone almost of fear.] Wait. I’m goin’ with ye. [Turning to his wife—with a certain rough tenderness.] Ye oughtn’t to walk down the hill here, Sarah. The doctor told ye to rest in the house and save your strength.

Mrs. B.—I want to speak to you alone, Isaiah. You never come to home no more, hardly, so I had to come to ye. [Accusingly.] You know it ain’t walkin’ is sappin’ my strength, Isaiah.

Bartlett—[Very uneasily.] I’ve got to work on the schooner, Sarah. That’s why I’ve no time to home.

Mrs. B.—She’ll be sailin’ soon?

Bartlett—[Suddenly turning on her defiantly.] Tomorrow at dawn!

Mrs. B.—[With her eyes fired accusingly on his.] And you be goin’ with her?

Bartlett—[In the same defiant tone.] Yes, I be! Who else’d captain her?

Mrs. B.—On a craft without a name.

Bartlett—She’ll have that name.

Mrs. B.—No.

Bartlett—She’ll have that name, I tell ye.

Mrs. B.—No.

Bartlett—[Thoroughly aroused, his will tries to break hers, but finds her unbending. He mutters menacingly.] Ye’ll see! We’ll talk o’ that later, you and me. [With sudden apprehension.] But not now. They’s plenty o’ time yet for that. Come on, Horne, we’ll get aboard. [Without a further glance at his wife he strides past her and disappears through the doorway, followed by Horne. Mrs. Bartlett sinks down in the chair by the table. She appears suddenly weak and crushed. Then from outside comes a girl’s laughing voice. Mrs. Bartlett does not seem to hear, nor to notice Sue and Drew when they enter. Sue is a slender, pretty girl of about twenty, with large blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, and a healthy, sun-tanned, out-of-door complexion. In spite of the slightness of her figure there is a suggestion of great vitality and nervous strength about her. Drew is a well-set-up, tall young fellow of thirty. Not in any way handsome, his boyish face, tanned to a deep brown, possesses an engaging character of healthy, cheerful forcefullness that has its compelling charm. There would be no chance of mistaking him for anything but the ship’s officer he is. It is written on his face, his walk, his voice, his whole bearing.]

Sue—[As they enter.] He’ll either be here or on the schooner, Danny. [Then she sees her mother, with startled amazement.] Ma! Good heavens, what are you doing here? [Throwing her arms around her neck and kissing her.] Don’t you know you shouldn’t——

Mrs. B.—[With a start—turning to her daughter with a forced smile.] There, Sue, now! Don’t go scoldin’ me. [Then seeing Drew—in a tone of forced gaiety.] And if there ain’t Danny Drew—back home to port at last! You can kiss an old woman, Danny—without makin’ her jealous, I reckon.

Drew—[Kissing her—with a smile.] I don’t know about that, Ma Bartlett. [Heartily.] It certainly seems good to see you again—and be back again myself.

Mrs. B.—We’ve been expectin’ you right along this past month. Then we read in the paper t’other day where your ship’d reached San Francisco, and we knew you’d be down any day. Sue’s been on pins and needles ever since.

Sue—[Protestingly.] Ma!

Drew—We were delayed in Valparaiso, waiting for cargo. [With a grin.] It’s a long time to be away from Sue—four months.

Sue—[Laughing.] It seems more like four years!

Drew—You remember, Ma, I left just after the big excitement here—when Captain Bartlett turned up after we’d all heard the Triton was wrecked and given him up for lost. That was sure a wonderful surprise when he walked into the house that day.

Mrs. B.—[Her face clouding—in a tone of deep sorrow.] Yes. [Drew is surprised and glances at Sue questioningly. She sighs. Mrs. Bartlett gets to her feet with difficulty, assisted by Drew. She forces a smile.] I’ve taken on a third leg since you was here, Danny!

Sue—We’ll help you back to the house. You can’t climb that steep hill alone.

Mrs. B.—Shucks! I’m sick o’ the house. I need sun and fresh air, and today’s so nice I couldn’t stay indoors. I’ll take your arm to hold on to, Danny. No, I ain’t goin’ up to the house yet awhile, so don’t you try to bully me into it, Sue. I’m goin’ to set in the shade o’ this shed out on the wharf and watch your Pa workin’ on the schooner. Ain’t much time left to see her, Sue. They’re sailin’ tomorrow at dawn, your Pa says.

Sue—Tomorrow? Then—you’re going to christen her?

Mrs. B.—[With grim determination.] No, I ain’t, Sue! [Catching Drew’s glance fixed on her with puzzled curiosity, she immediately attempts to resume her joking tone.] Shucks! Here’s Danny wonderin’ what silliness we’re talkin’ of. It’s just this, Danny. Captain Bartlett, he’s got a crazy notion in his head that just because his ship was wrecked last vige he’ll give up whalin’ for life. He’s fitted out this little schooner for tradin’ in the Islands. More money in that, he says. But I don’t agree with no such lunatic notions, and I’m just that stubborn I’m not goin’ to set my approval on his craziness by christenin’ his ship with my name, like he wants me to. He’d ought to stick to whalin,’ like he’s done all his life. Don’t you think so, Danny?

Drew—[Embarrassed.] Why, sure—he’s rated one of the smartest whaling skippers here on the coast—and I should think——

Mrs. B.—Just what I tell him—only he’s that stubborn. I’d best get out quick while it’s still sunny and warm. It’s damp in here for an old body. [Drew helps her to the door on the left, opens it, and the two go out, followed by Sue, who carries a chair. After a pause, Sue and Drew return. Sue carefully shuts the door after them. Her face is troubled.]

Drew—[Looks at her for a minute, then comes and puts his arm around her and kisses her.] What’s the trouble, Sue?

Sue—[Trying to force a smile.] Nothing, Danny.

Drew—Oh, yes there is! No use putting me off that way. Why, I’ve felt it hanging about in the air ever since I first looked at your mother.

Sue—Yes, she’s failed terribly since you saw her last.

Drew—Oh, I don’t mean just sickness—only—did you notice how she had to—force herself—to joke about things? She used to be so cheerful natural. [Scratching his head in honest puzzlement.] But—that ain’t what I mean, either. What is it, Sue? Maybe I can help somehow. You look worried, too. Pshaw! You can tell me, can’t you?

Sue—Why, yes, Danny—of course—if I could tell—only I’m just as puzzled as you over what it comes from.

Drew—[Persuasively.] Well, you sit down and tell me what’s happened since I’ve been away. Then maybe we can put our heads together and figure out what’s wrong, and turn to get things ship-shape again. [Sue sits down but does not speak. Drew remarks as if to get her started.] That schooner’s a smart little craft for sailing, I should say. I didn’t notice no one about working, though.

Sue—No. They’re probably below in the cabin, drinking. That’s all they’ve been doing lately. The schooner’s been ready to sail for two weeks—but Pa has kept waiting—I don’t know what for. Yes, I do know, too—I think I guess. He’s been waiting for Ma to give in and christen the ship with her name. But she won’t give in. You heard her.

Drew—Well, I suppose she does take it to heart that he’d give up the business he’s been in all his life to go in for something new—at his age.

Sue—He mortgaged the house to get money to buy and fit out this schooner. You know he lost most everything when the Triton was wrecked. He’d only had her two years, and she cost him a pile of money. Then, too, he’s lost a lot all his life—since he and Ma moved out here from the East—investing in all sorts of silly mining ventures—gold mines that always turned out to be only holes in the ground. As far back as I can remember he’s never seemed to care about the whaling business—the oil. Ambergris was what he was after. Finding one chunk of that meant more to him than a full cargo of oil.

Drew—[With a grin.] “Old Ambergris.” That’s what they call him along the coast—behind his back, of course. I reckon he was sort of prospecting the Pacific Ocean looking for an ambergris mine. [Apologetically.] Sounds as if I was making fun of him, but you remember how you’n’ me ’n’ Nat used to laugh about it together.

Sue—It’s past a laughing matter now, Danny.

Drew—And what do you reckon the real trouble is?

Sue—Something between him and Ma—something that only the two of them know. It all seemed to start one morning after you’d left—about a week after he’d come home with those three awful men. During that first week he acted all right—just like he used to—only he’d get talking kind of wild now and then about being glad the Triton was lost, and promising we’d all be millionaires once he started making trips on the schooner. Ma didn’t seem to mind his going in for trading then. Then, the night of the day he bought the schooner, something must have happened between them. Neither of them came down to breakfast. I went up to Ma, and found her so sick we sent for the doctor. He said she’d suffered a great shock of some kind, although she wouldn’t tell him a word. I found Pa down in this shed. He’d moved that cot down here, and said he’d have to sleep here after that because he wanted to be near the schooner. It’s been that way ever since. He’s slept down here and never come up to the house except at mealtimes. He’s never been alone with Ma one second since then, I don’t believe. And she—she’s been trying to corner him, to get him alone. I’ve noticed it, although she does her best to hide it from Nat and me. And she’s been failing, growing weaker and sicker looking every day. [Breaking down.] Oh, Danny, these last months have been terrible! I’m so glad you’re back again.

Drew—[Soothing her.] There! It’ll all come out right.

Sue—I’m sure that’s why she’s crept down here today. She’s bound she’ll see him alone before he sails.

Drew—Well, maybe it’s for the best. Maybe when they’ve had it out, things’ll clear up.

Sue—Yes, perhaps. But I can’t help feeling—it’ll only make it worse.

Drew—[Frowning.] Seems to me it must be all your Pa’s fault, Sue—whatever it is. Have you tried to talk to him?

Sue—Yes—a good many times; but all he’s ever said was: “There’s things you wouldn’t take interest in, Sue. You’ll know when it’s time to know.”—and then he’d break off by asking me what I’d like most to have in the world if he had piles of money. And then, one time, he seemed to be terribly afraid of something, and he said to me: “You hustle up and marry Danny, Sue. You marry him and get out of this.”

Drew—[With an affectionate grin.] That does sound crazy—any man wanting to get rid of you that way. [A note of entreaty in his voice.] But I surely wish you’d take his advice, Sue! [He kisses her.]

Sue—[With intense longing.] Oh, I wish I could, Danny.

Drew—I’ve quite considerable saved now, Sue, and it won’t be so long before I get my own ship, I’m hoping, now that I’ve got my master’s certificate. I was hoping at the end of this voyage——

Sue—So was I, Danny—but it can’t be this time. With Ma so weak, and no one to take care of her but me—— [Shaking her head—in a tone of decision.] I couldn’t leave home now, Danny. It wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t feel really happy—until this thing—whatever it is—is settled between Pa and Ma and they’re just as they used to be again. [Pleadingly.] You understand, don’t you, Danny?

Drew—[Soberly.] Why—surely I do, Sue. [He pats her hand.] Only, it’s hard waiting. [He sighs.]

Sue—I know. It’s just as hard for me.

Drew—I thought maybe I could help; but this isn’t anything anyone outside your family could mix in. [Sue shakes her head. He goes on gloomily after a pause.] What’s the matter with Nat? Seems as if he ought to be able to step in and talk turkey to your Pa.

Sue—[Slowly.] You’ll find Nat changed, too, Danny—changed terribly. He’s caught the disease—whatever it is. You know how interested in his work he’s been ever since they put him in the designing department down in the shipyard?

Drew—Yes.

Sue—[With emphasis.] Well, all that’s changed. He hates it now, or at least he says he does. And when he comes home, he spends all his time prowling around the dock here, talking with those three awful men. And what do you think he told me only the other day? That he was bound he’d throw up his job and make this voyage on the schooner. He even asked me to ask Pa to let him go.

Drew—Your Pa doesn’t want him to, eh?

Sue—Why, of course not! Leave a fine position he worked so hard to get just for this crazy notion! Pa’d never let him. He’s even ordered him to keep off the schooner and not to talk to those men.

Drew—Funny Nat’d like to go to sea. He’s always seemed to want to fight shy of it.

Sue—The terrible part is, he’s got Ma worried to death—as if she wasn’t upset enough already. She’s so afraid he’ll go—that Pa’ll let him at the last moment. She’s always pleading with Nat not to think of it—so that he keeps out of her way, too. Poor Ma! She’s only got me to talk to.

Drew—Maybe I can help after all. I can talk to Nat.

Sue—[Shaking her head.] He’s not the same Nat, Danny.

Drew—[Trying to be consoling.] Pshaw, Sue! I think you just get to imagining things. [As he finishes speaking, the door in the rear opens and Nat appears. He is a tall, loose-framed boy of eighteen, who bears a striking resemblance to his father. His face, like his father’s, is large and bony, with deep-set black eyes, an aquiline nose, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. There is no suggestion in Nat, however, of the older man’s physical health and great strength. He appears an indoor product, undeveloped in muscle, with a sallow complexion and stooped shoulders. His thick hair is a deep black. His voice recalls his father’s, hollow and penetrating. He is dressed in a grey flannel shirt and corduroy trousers. Drew calls out to him, heartly.] Hello, Nat! Speak of the Devil! Sue and I were just talking about you. [He goes toward Nat, his hand outstretched.]

Nat—[Comes toward them, meets Drew, and shakes his hand with evident pleasure.] Hello, Danny! You’re a sight for sore eyes! [His manner undergoes a sudden change. He casts a quick, suspicious glance from Drew to his sister.] You were talking about me? What about?

Sue—[Quickly—with a warning glance at Drew.] About your work down at the shipyard.

Nat—[Disgustedly.] Oh, that. [In a tone of reasonless irritation.] For God’s sake, Sue, let me alone about my work. Don’t I have to live with the damn thing all day, without your shoving it in my face the minute I get home? I want to forget it—get away!

Drew—Go to sea, eh?

Nat—[Suspiciously.] Maybe. Why? What do you mean?

Drew—[Warned by a glance from Sue, says carelessly.] Well, that’s where you’d be apt to go, isn’t it?

Nat—[Suspiciously.] That isn’t what you were thinking, Danny. [Turning to his sister—angrily.] What have you been telling Danny?

Sue—I was talking about the schooner—telling him that she sails tomorrow.

Nat—[Dumfounded.] Tomorrow? [Overcome by sudden, nervous excitement.] It can’t be. How do you know? Who told you?

Sue—Ma. Pa told her.

Nat—Then she’s been talking to him—telling him not to take me, I’ll bet. [Angrily.] Oh, I wish Ma’d mind her own business!

Sue—Nat!

Nat—Well, Sue, how would you like it? I’m not a little boy any more. I know what I want to do. I want to go with them. I want to go more than I’ve ever wanted anything else in my life before. He—he doesn’t want me. He’s afraid I—But I think I can force him to—— [He glances at Drew’s amazed face and stops abruptly—sullenly.] Where is Pa?

Sue—He’s aboard the schooner.

Nat—[Disappointedly.] Then it’s no good trying to see him now. I’ll have to wait.

Drew—Sound’s funny to hear you talking about going to sea. Why, you always used——

Nat—[Wearily.] I know. This is different.

Drew—You want to see the Islands, I suppose?

Nat—[Suspiciously.] Maybe. Why not?

Drew—What group is your Pa heading for first?

Nat—[More suspiciously.] You’ll have to ask him. Why do you want to know? [Abruptly.] You better be getting up to the house, Sue—if we’re to have any supper. Danny must be hungry. [He turns his back on them. They exchange meaning glances.]

Sue—[With a sigh.] It must be getting late. Come on, Danny. You can see Pa later on. [They go toward the door in the rear.] Aren’t you coming, Nat?

Nat—No. I’ll wait. [Impatiently.] Go ahead. I’ll be up before long.

Drew—See you later, then, Nat.

Nat—Yes. [They go out, rear. Nat paces up and down in a great state of excitement. The door on the left is opened and Bartlett enters. His eyes are wild, as if he had been drinking heavily, but he shows no other effects. Father and son stand looking at one another for a second. Nat takes a step backward as if in fear, then straightens up defiantly.]