UC-NI 
 
 OTfl 
 
 STAGE GUILD PLAYS 
 
 DUST OF THE ROAD 
 
UNIVERSITY FARM 
 
 PS 634- 
 Cr<b 
 
UNTYF 
 
 STAGE GUILD PLAYS 
 DUST OF THE ROAD 
 
DUST OF THE ROAD 
 
 A PLAY IN ONE ACT 
 
 BY 
 
 KENNETH SAWYER GOODMAN 
 
 THE STAGE GUILD 
 CHICAGO 
 
Copyright, 1912, by 
 
 Kenneth Sawyer Goodman 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 NOTICE. Applications for permission to per 
 form this play should be made to The Stage 
 Guild, Railway Exchange Building, Chicago; 
 no performance of it may take place without 
 consent of the owners of the acting rights. 
 
DUST OF THE ROAD 
 
 A Play in One Act 
 
 CHARACTERS: 
 
 Peter Steele. 
 
 Prudence Steele, his wife. 
 
 An Old Man, Prudence's uncle. 
 
 A Tramp. 
 
 The time is about one o'clock of a Christmas morning 
 in the early seventies. The place is the living room of a 
 comfortable and fairly prosperous Middle Western 
 farmer. At the right as you face the stage is a fireplace 
 with a glowing fire in it. Beside the fire is a large arm 
 chair in which Prudence is sitting. At her elbow is a 
 small table with a lighted lamp, having an opaque shade 
 of green tin. At the left is a door giving' into other parts 
 of the house; at the back centre a door giving outside. 
 There is a larger table at left centre near the front of the 
 stage. There is also a lighted lamp on this table, but the 
 back of the stage is in semi-darkness. Near the outside 
 door is a window, the curtains of which are drawn. As 
 the curtain rises, the Old Man has just shut and bolted 
 the outside door as if shutting some one out. He is only 
 partly dressed and carries a lighted candle in his hand. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Well, what did he say? 
 
 OLD MAN. Nothing. He ' s gone, if that * s any comfort 
 to you. 
 
 PRUDENCE. It is a comfort to me. I don ' t like folks 
 coming to the door at this time of night. 
 
 5 
 
OLD MAN. You might have stirred yourself to take a look 
 at him. He was that cold I could hear his teeth clatter. 
 
 PRUDENCE. What was he like? 
 
 OLD MAN. Youngish, I ' d say, with thin cheeks and a 
 yellow beard. But I never seen such old looking eyes as 
 he had. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Go to bed, uncle. 
 
 OLD MAN. Both his hands were bandaged. I could see 
 the blood on ' em. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Well, what of it? We can't be feeding 
 every beggar that comes to the house. 
 
 OLD MAN. [At the window.] He ain' t turned the wil 
 lows at the bend of the road. I could holler to him yet. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Go back to bed, I tell you, and let me read 
 my Bible till Peter comes in. 
 
 OLD MAN. [Going toward the inside door.] You' ve set 
 me thinking, Prudence Steele. You've set me thinking 
 again. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Hush your mouth, and go to bed. 
 
 OLD MAN. Aye, aye, that ' s it ! ' To them that hath shall 
 be given, and from him that hath not shall be taken away 
 even that which he hath. ' If folks only knows enough to 
 keep their mouths shut. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Now, you' re blaspheming again. 
 
 OLD MAN. Maybe I be. But if I was to open my mouth 
 now and tell what I can remember clear as day, wouldn't 
 I be serving the Lord? Answer me that. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Nobody ' d believe you. 
 
 OLD MAN. I ain' t asking ' em to. If you and Peter can 
 disremember what happened in this room, it ain't for me 
 to turn against my own kin. 
 
 6 
 
PRUDENCE. Nothing happened in this room. 
 
 OLD MAN. Maybe I never seen thirty one-hundred dollar 
 bills counted out on this table. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Go to bed. 
 
 OLD MAN. I'm going I'm going, but it would do me 
 good to see them that ' s proud pulled down and her that 
 would n' t spare a crust for a lame beggar on Christmas 
 Eve, losing a piece of money like that as a judgment. It 
 would be as fine a judgment as ever I see in that there 
 book of yours. 
 
 [The old man goes out chuckling. Prudence fol 
 lows him to the door, closes it, listens a moment t 
 then blows out the lamp on the larger table and 
 returns to the chair by the fire. She turns the 
 pages of the book and then lays it face down on 
 her knee and puts her hand over her eyes. The 
 whole stage is now nearly dark, the only light 
 coming from the lamp on the small table and from 
 the fire in the grate. The Tramp opens the out 
 side door and steps into the room. Prudence stirs 
 a little and the book drops from her lap, rousing 
 her. She sits up and listens. The Tramp closes 
 the door and shoots the bolt.] 
 
 PRUDENCE. You ' re powerful late getting in. 
 
 TRAMP. Aye, maybe I am. [He rattles the door to see if 
 it is fast.] 
 
 PRUDENCE. Hush your noise with the bolt, can* t you ! 
 You ' 11 be having Uncle down here again. 
 
 TRAMP. I ' 11 take my chance of that ! 
 PRUDENCE. What' s the matter with your voice? 
 TRAMP. It ' s the river fog sticking in my throat. 
 
 PRUDENCE. [Rising] Come here and let me look at 
 you. I never heard you speak with that voice before. 
 
 7 
 
TRAMP. [Stepping into the light.] I dare say you never 
 did! 
 
 PRUDENCE. God save us! I thought you were my hus 
 band. 
 
 TRAMP. I gathered as much from your friendly greeting. 
 [Pie comes a step nearer.'] 
 
 PRUDENCE. Stand off or I ' 11 scream ! What do you 
 want? Who are you? 
 
 TRAMP. What ' s the need of your knowing? 
 PRUDENCE. Tell me what you want and get out of my 
 house. You need n' t grin at me. I ' m not afraid of you ! 
 
 TRAMP. You ' re a bold woman ! 
 
 PRUDENCE. I have cause to be, with a husband leaving 
 me lonesome half the nights of the year, and beggars 
 prowling the dark like rats. 
 
 TRAMP. You ' ve a brave tongue in your head, and a kind 
 voice, like a chilly wind on a tin church steeple. You ' 11 
 ask me to sit by your fire next and offer me a sup of 
 something hot. 
 
 PRUDENCE. I ' 11 point you the door you came in by, and 
 set the dog to your coat-tails. 
 
 TRAMP. Fine hospitality for the beginning of Christmas 
 Day. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Who are you? 
 
 TRAMP. Dust of the road, my dear, like any other 
 man. Dust with a spark of fire in it. 
 
 PRUDENCE. You' re a tramp, by the looks of you or 
 worse. 
 
 TRAMP. A tramp is it ? That ' s what you ' d call a gay 
 fellow tramping the hills for the clean joy of sun and air; 
 keen snow in winter and the voice of the birds in the 
 
 8 
 
warm season. It ' s what you ' d call the lifeless wretches, 
 skulking from doorstep to doorstep for the leavings of 
 other folk' s tables. I ' m neither the one sort nor the 
 other, but the name fits me well enough. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Whatever you call yourself, you ' ve got no 
 business in a decent person's house at the middle of the 
 night. 
 
 TRAMP. [Taking a pipe from his pocket and filling it.} 
 Is your husband like to be home soon ? 
 
 PRUDENCE. You ' 11 hear him at the door any minute 
 now. If you ' re thinking of robbery you ' d better be 
 quick about it. There ' s little enough to take. 
 
 TRAMP. [Lighting his pipe and seating himself on the 
 edge of the larger table.] You can keep your hand off that 
 trinket at your neck and make your mind easy about the 
 spoons. I ' m a disreputable character, a prowler in the 
 night, a betrayer of friendship ; I ' ve none of what you ' d 
 call common decency ; I ' d as leave eat your bread and 
 kiss your hand and do you a dirty turn afterward as not, 
 but well I ' ve a different whim. I ' m not here to 
 make you trouble. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Fine ideas you ' ve got ! What' 11 my hus 
 band say when he smells the smoke of your pipe ? 
 
 TRAMP. You ' 11 have no call to lie, my dear, though 
 you ' ve a quick enough wit ! I'm waiting to see him 
 myself when he comes in. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Like as not he ' 11 break your head for your 
 pains. 
 
 TRAMP. Aye, like as not. 
 
 PRUDENCE. You ' ve got gall to be sitting there swinging 
 your feet. 
 
 TRAMP. I ' m thinking what I ' 11 say to you in the mean 
 time. 
 
 PRUDENCE. You won ' t be doing much thinking when 
 he ' s pounded you till the teeth ache in your jaws. 
 
 9 
 
TRAMP. [In a cold sharp voice and speaking very slowly.] 
 Why did you send that other beggar away just now, Pru 
 dence Steele? 
 
 PRUDENCE. So you know my name, do you ? 
 
 TRAMP. Yes! It ' s a cruel sounding name, Prudence 
 Steele, and you ' ve a cruel way of speaking and of look 
 ing at a poor man, my dear ! 
 
 PRUDENCE. You' re a fine hand at a compliment, Mister 
 Tramp. 
 
 TRAMP. Why did you send him away ? 
 PRUDENCE. Send who away? 
 
 TRAMP. The lame man with the bandages on his hands 
 and feet. 
 
 PRUDENCE. What ' s that to you ? 
 
 TRAMP. I was standing in the road. I saw him knock 
 at your door. I saw it open a little. I saw it close again. 
 I saw him go away just as I ' ve seen him go from thou 
 sands of other doors. 
 
 PRUDENCE. He must be a friend of yours. 
 
 TRAMP. No. He was one once. Now he ' s a creditor. 
 
 PRUDENCE. By the looks of it, he ' 11 have a hard time 
 getting his money. 
 
 TRAMP. Money ' s easy to find, sometimes too easy. 
 Now if you ' d care to feel in my pockets [He jingles 
 coins in his pockets.] 
 
 PRUDENCE. Well, pay him then, and keep him from 
 pestering other folks. 
 
 TRAMP. One is n' t always minded to pay one ' s debts. 
 And sometimes it ' s not so easy as you ' d think. Only 
 one day of the year I walk the same road with him. I fol 
 low him with the money in my hand. I met him at your 
 
 10 
 
gate just now and offered it. He turned aside his face. 
 Would you like to see the coins? [Holding out his hand 
 with coins.] You must. Thirty pieces of silver coined 
 in the Roman mint at Jerusalem. 
 
 [Faint blue light now illumines the face of the Tramp 
 and becomes brighter as the scene goes on.~] 
 
 PRUDENCE. [Fascinated, looking at the money.] You 
 frighten me. What are those stains ? 
 
 TRAMP. Blood, my dear! It ' s blood money. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Whose blood? 
 
 TRAMP. The man ' s who knocked at your door. 
 
 PRUDENCE. What did he want? 
 
 TRAMP. He came to give not to ask. 
 
 PRUDENCE. What beggar would be going about the 
 country giving something away? 
 
 TRAMP. Yes, Prudence Steele, what beggar would be 
 doing that ? It ' s a riddle for you to read. 
 
 PRUDENCE. And I suppose now, you ' ve got something 
 to give me! 
 
 TRAMP. Yes, something you won ' t be likely to take. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Huh ! Advice, I suppose. That ' s the 
 cheapest thing I know. 
 
 TRAMP. Sit down. [Prudence sits down.] Where the 
 man with the wounded hands knocks once, he knocks 
 again. Wherever he ' s turned away, I find the door un 
 latched. But open the door to him, and I stand in the 
 road outside, I'm glad ! Oh, I ' m a person of strange 
 contradictions like any other man. Yon don ' t under 
 stand me. 
 
 PRUDENCE. No. 
 
 1 1 
 
TRAMP. No matter. When he knocks again, let him 
 come in. 
 
 PRUDENCE. What do you mean? 
 
 TRAMP. Let him come in, I tell you, and save the joy 
 of life in your heart. 
 
 [There is a stamping outside and the door is 
 shaken.] 
 
 PETER. [Outside.] Hi! Open the door! Prudence, 
 I say! Wake up and open the door! 
 
 PRUDENCE. [Starting and passing her hands across her 
 eyes.] It ' s Peter. It ' s my husband. 
 
 TRAMP. Open the door for him! 
 
 [Prudence runs to the door and opens it. Peter 
 enters and she clings to him, half hysterical. The 
 Tramp remains seated on the larger table, but the 
 light fades from his face.] 
 
 PRUDENCE. Peter oh, Peter, Peter! 
 
 PETER. What ' s biting you ? Let go my arm, woman ! 
 Are you trying to claw the coat off me ? 
 
 PRUDENCE. Send him away! Send him away! Send 
 him away! 
 
 PETER. Take your hands off me. 
 PRUDENCE. Send him away! 
 PETER. Send who away? 
 
 PRUDENCE. That man ! That man over there ! I'm 
 afraid of him! 
 
 PETER. What man? 
 
 PRUDENCE. He came in without knocking. I thought it 
 was you ! He ' s terrible he ' s crazy ! Look at his 
 eyes! Send him away! 
 
 12 
 
PETER. Go on! Don't be a fool! There's nobody 
 here. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Over there ! He was standing by the table. 
 The table over there. . . . He ' s gone ! 
 
 [They both move across the room, but the Tramp 
 has disappeared in the darkness.] 
 
 PETER. You 've been asleep! You 've had a nightmare. 
 You Ve been worrying again. You 'd no call to sit up 
 waiting for me. There 's been nobody here. 
 
 PRUDENCE. I could have taken my solemn oath ! . . . 
 
 PETER. [Roughly.] You '11 take no oaths except them 
 I tell you to. Go to bed ! 
 
 PRUDENCE. Where Ve you been? 
 
 PETER. Up to the church. I stayed to a vestry meeting. 
 I walked home slow. 
 
 PRUDENCE. You Ve decided what we 're going to do ? 
 
 PETER. Go to bed and let me think. I '11 tell you in the 
 morning. 
 
 [Prudence moves toiuard the inside door. Peter 
 calls her back.] 
 
 PETER. Look here! You '11 keep your mouth shut? 
 You '11 stick to that ? 
 
 PRUDENCE. Yes. [She makes a move as if she were 
 coming back to say something.] 
 
 PETER. Get out of here and let me alone. [He sits down 
 in the chair by the fire and puts his face in his hands. 
 Prudence goes out. The Tramp reappears] 
 
 TRAMP. Well, Peter Steele, is it easy to think of perjury 
 and theft on Christmas morning? 
 
 PETER. God ! Who 's talking to me ! 
 
 '3 
 
TRAMP. A greater rogue than yourself. 
 
 PETER. [Rising.'} I see you now, confound you! Where 
 were you hiding when I came in ? 
 
 TRAMP. No matter ! 
 
 PETER. So, my wife was n't dreaming, eh! 
 
 TRAMP. No more than you are. 
 
 PETER. You frightened her, eh! I '11 make short work 
 of you. [He begins rolling up his sleeves.] 
 
 TRAMP. I only gave her a little advice. 
 
 PETER. Damn you ! I '11 give you something else ! 
 [He moves toward the Tramp.] 
 
 TRAMP. [Coolly.] Sit down! 
 
 PETER. Get out of here, with your advice! Get out, I 
 tell you, before I kick you out. 
 
 TRAMP. [More harshly but without moving] Sit down. 
 
 PETER. You can 't frighten me with your talk. I 'm an 
 honest man, I tell you. 
 
 TRAMP. So was I once. 
 
 PETER. What have you got to do with me, damn you? 
 
 TRAMP. ' For there is nothing covered that shall not be 
 revealed, neither hid that shall not be known. ' 
 
 PETER. [With a sigh of relief] Oh, I see now. You 're 
 only a traveling preacher. 
 
 TRAMP. No, but I 've travelled much and worn the cloth 
 in my time. 
 
 PETER. I 'm dashed if I see what you 're driving at ! 
 TRAMP. You will presently. 
 PETER. I won 't listen to you. 
 
 H 
 
TRAMP. You know what 's coming. 
 
 PETER. How should I know what 's coming? I '11 
 I'll 
 
 TRAMP. You '11 listen, Peter Steele, because I 'm going 
 to tell you something about yourself and you '11 know it 
 for the truth. 
 
 PETER. If if some one sent you here to pump me, 
 you 'd better be off, or I '11 have the law on you both. 
 
 TRAMP. You had a friend, Peter Steele, and you loved 
 him. He 'd often left his affairs in your hands. You 'd 
 served him honestly and he trusted you. 
 
 PETER. And why would n't anybody trust me? I Ve 
 been an honest man, I tell you. 
 
 TRAMP. He came to you in this room. It was the spring 
 the war began. He had enlisted a company. Before he 
 left he brought you money, money to keep for his boy. 
 
 PETER. It 's a lie ! I tell you, it 's a damned lie ! What 
 right 's the boy got to think his father gave me money to 
 keep for him? He ain 't got a receipt, has he? It ain 't 
 shown in the accounts, is it ? 
 
 TRAMP. No, Peter Steele, the boy can 't show a receipt 
 and the entry 's not to be found in the accounts. 
 
 PETER. By what token do you think a man would be 
 fool enough to leave money lying around loose like that? 
 
 TRAMP. By the token that he trusted you. 
 
 PETER. I never had it! I tell you I never had it! 
 What do you know about it? 
 
 TRAMP. The drums were beating in the road. Your 
 
 friend was in his captain ' s uniform. His sword lay on 
 the table by the door; his cloak over the back of that 
 chair. You sat here. He stood across the table from 
 you. Your wife sat where you 're sitting now ; her uncle 
 over there by the window. 
 
 '5 
 
PETER. Who told you all that? What tricks are you 
 trying to play on me ? 
 
 TRAMP. Your friend laid the money on this table ; thirty 
 one-hundred dollar bills. He said to you, " Peter, I want 
 to leave this money with you. In case I don ' t come back, 
 I 'd rather my boy didn * t count on anything at all when 
 he makes his start. I Ve fixed things safe for him till he 
 can earn his keep. This is something extra, a nest egg for 
 him, when he 's twenty-one. " Then he shook you by the 
 hand. As he went down the path, the drums stopped 
 beating, and when the room was still again you heard the 
 voice of the money ! 
 
 PETER. God, how did you know that? 
 
 TRAMP. Oh, you meant to keep faith, Peter Steele, but 
 you never entered the three thousand dollars in your ac 
 counts. Well, he never came back. You read his name 
 in the lists. It set you thinking about the boy and the 
 money. Years went by. The boy began to work and 
 earn his keep. You watched him grow up and wondered 
 if he guessed. Last week, you remembered that your debt 
 fell due on the day after Christmas. Then you sat down 
 to figure interest. You 'd used the money well and you 
 tried a just rate. The total startled 5^ou. Then you tried 
 three per cent; still too much! Then you sat quiet and 
 the money whispered to you, " Why give me up at all ? 
 No one can prove you ever had me. " 
 
 PETER. And they can't prove it! My wife and her 
 uncle can swear they never saw it paid. 
 
 TRAMP. Certainly. 
 
 PETER. The boy can't show a receipt. 
 
 TRAMP. None ! 
 
 PETER. No. I don ' t know who told you all this, but 
 if you 're trying to blackmail me, there 's the door, and be 
 damned ! 
 
 16 
 
TRAMP. I '11 not trouble you again, whatever decision 
 you come to. 
 
 PETER. Then, what in hell did you come here for? 
 Answer me that ! 
 
 TRAMP. To advise you to give the boy his money of your 
 own free will. 
 
 PETER. Ha! Ha! Anything else? 
 
 TRAMP. No. 
 
 PETER. Who in the devil are you, stranger ? 
 
 TRAMP. Come closer ! 
 
 PETER. I can see you well enough from here. 
 
 TRAMP. Come here and look at me. Have you ever 
 seen me before ? 
 
 PETER. No, thank Heaven ! I never have. 
 TRAMP. Look in my eyes. 
 
 [Peter moves toward him as if dazed.] 
 
 PETER. They 're like the eyes of a cat. There 's fire in 
 'em! 
 
 TRAMP. Flame from a sunset under Calvary. Look at 
 my throat ! 
 
 PETER. [Shrinking away.] I Ve seen marks like that on 
 a man. . . . 
 
 TRAMP. I hanged myself to a dead tree on a stony hill 
 side. Listen ! 
 
 [He jingles the money in his pocket.] 
 PETER. It 's the sound of money! 
 
 TRAMP. Thirty pieces of silver, coined in the Roman 
 mint at Jerusalem ; the price of my soul, that 's walked the 
 evil edges of the world, for nineteen centuries. 
 
 '7 
 
PETER. In God's name, tell me who you are ! 
 
 TRAMP. The one being that knows best the priceless 
 value of the thing you 're so ready to sell, Judas of 
 Kerioth. 
 
 \He advances toward Peter, who sinks into the 
 chair by the fire, cowering away from him.] 
 
 PETER. Let me alone, I say ! Let me alone ! 
 
 TRAMP. You 'd been an honest man, Peter Steele, and 
 the sun had warmed you and the birds piped to you when 
 you ploughed the fields. You 'd looked against the fa^es 
 of red hills when dawn was new, and strained your eyes 
 across blue valleys at the close of day. And men spoke 
 you fair in the roads and children turned to you as you 
 passed, till a little while ago. What came over you that 
 you 'd put the joy of living in pawn for thirty pieces of 
 money ? 
 
 PETER. Let me be! I Ve become a hard man; and 
 money 's a big thing in the world. What 's the piping of 
 birds to me. Leave me alone and let me sell my soul if 
 I like ! It's mine to sell ! 
 
 TRAMP. Aye! It 's yours to sell. To sell over and 
 over, if you like. There 's money to be got for it, more 
 than the first price you take, and pride, and ease of body, 
 and fear of men ! But it isn 't only your soul you sell, 
 Peter Steele, and nothing you get will compare with that 
 which goes out of you when the first payment clinks in 
 your hand. 
 
 PETER. Let me be ! Let me be ! 
 
 TRAMP. You '11 miss the joy of small things crying in the 
 grass, and the pleasant sadness that comes of watching the 
 fall of yellow leaves. You '11 take no comfort in the 
 sound of a woman 's singing, or the laughing of a child, or 
 the crackling of a fire in the grate. 
 
 PETER. I was never a hand at noticing such things. 
 
 18 
 
TRAMP. No, but an honest man shares all the common 
 gifts of God. He feels and is grateful without knowing 
 how or why. He seldom knows the joy of it all, till he 's 
 lost the power of feeling. 
 
 PETER. Let me be. 
 
 TRAMP. You '11 walk the sunshiny roads and have only 
 the dust of them in your throat. You '11 see little lakes 
 lying in the bosom of the hills, like purple wine in cups 
 of green jade, and have only the pain of daylight in your 
 eyes. You '11 lie down to sleep with the crystal stars blink 
 ing at you, and have only the empty blackness of night in 
 your heart. I know how it will be with you, Peter Steele. 
 
 PETER. What do you want me to do? 
 
 TRAMP. Give up the money of your own free will. 
 
 PETER. What interest have you got in seeing me go 
 straight ? Whose work are you doing ? 
 
 TRAMP. [Slowly.} It 's one thing to die in a splendid 
 agony and save the world. It 's another to drag the 
 weight of a name like mine from century to century; to 
 live on and on, and suffer every pain of death; to save a 
 man here and a man there only to balance my own long 
 account to die to be forgotten. 
 
 PETER. To balance your long account ? 
 
 TRAMP. Turn you from the thing you 're about to do, 
 and I toss a grain of dust into the scales. There 's a 
 heavy weight to be balanced, Peter Steele, and it 's only 
 one day of the year I 'm free to search. 
 
 PETER. Let me be. 
 
 TRAMP. Would you rob me, too ? 
 
 PETER. [Putting his hands to his head.} Let me think, 
 I tell you ! Let me think ! 
 
 '9 
 
[The inside door opens, and Prudence enters 
 dressed in a wrapper and carrying a small lamp. 
 As the light illumines that side of the room, the 
 gflow fades on the Tramp ' s face and he disap 
 pears. Peter sits with his head in his hands, just 
 as Prudence left him.] 
 
 PRUDENCE. Peter, Peter, are you asleep ? 
 PETER. [Starting.] Eh? No. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Why have n' t you come to bed ? It 's near 
 daylight. 
 
 PETER. I 've been thinking, Prudence, I 've been think 
 ing. 
 
 PRUDENCE. About about ? 
 
 PETER. Say it! I 've been thinking of perjury and theft 
 on Christmas morning. I Ve been thinking of selling my 
 soul for thirty pieces of money. [He rises.] But, thank 
 God, I have n't sold it yet. 
 
 PRUDENCE. [Going to him.] Oh, Peter! Peter! 
 
 PETER. The boy will get his money on the nail. I 'm 
 an honest man, Prue. I 'm an honest man, I tell you ! 
 
 PRUDENCE. Oh, Peter, I 'm glad, F m glad ! 
 
 PETER. Every penny he '11 get and interest. Fair inter 
 est! 
 
 PRUDENCE. It 's a great deal of money, but I'm glad ! 
 
 PETER. Little enough to give for keeping the joy of liv 
 ing in your heart on Christmas Day. 
 
 PRUDENCE. I want to tell you something. I could n't 
 sleep either. Oh, Peter, I could n't sleep. 
 
 PETER. You 've been thinking of it, too. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Not about the money. There was a lame 
 man here just before you came in. I sent him away. It 
 
 20 
 
worries me, Peter. I 'm sorry I did n't let him in. Uncle 
 saw him. He 'd been hurt. His feet and hands were 
 bandaged. I thought . . I thought perhaps ... I 
 feel as if he 'd stopped somewhere near the house. 
 
 PETER. Which way did he go ? 
 
 PRUDENCE. Toward the willows at the bend of the road. 
 
 PETER. [Reaching for his hat and coat.] Like as not 
 he 'd try to shelter himself there. [He moves towards the 
 outside door.] 
 
 PRUDENCE. Where are you going ? 
 
 PETER. To find him and fetch him back. We can 't 
 let him freeze. 
 
 [They go together to the outside door and open it. 
 It is morning outside.] 
 
 PETER. It 's morning already. 
 
 PRUDENCE. Did you ever see such a dawn on the snow? 
 
 PETER. Never in my life. [He kisses her and goes put.] 
 
 PRUDENCE. [Calling after him.] I '11 have the coffee on 
 the stove. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 21 
 
THE STAGE GUILD 
 PLAYS AND MASQUES 
 
 Published at 
 Railway Exchange Building, Chicago 
 
 MASQUES OF EAST AND WEST. By Thomas 
 Wood Stevens and Kenneth Sawyer Goodman; with in 
 troduction by Percy MacKay. Cloth, $1.50. The 
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 THE CHAPLET OE PAN. A poetic masque by 
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 RYLAND, AND HOLBEIN IN BLACKFRIARS. 
 by Thomas Wood Stevens and Kenneth Sawyer Good 
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