We'll go at the company in the way that that walking delegate says. (_As she becomes conscious she is quoting the quoted delegate._) The walking delegate? Well, he's alright, we'll do things his way, and we'll win.

MOLLY--Of course we'll win. Public sympathy is with the men this time.

QUINN--Well, it won't be fer long, if the men see red, and go about bustin' up perfectly good arms of innocent bystanders. Me mind's made up, violence must stop.

MRS. QUINN--And mine's made up too, the strike must be won.

(_Quinn goes to wail rack, and takes down hat and coat._)

What are ye doin' with yer coat?

QUINN--I'll go and have a talk with the boys. I've some power with them.

Violence must stop. I'll try to make them listen to reason, and if they won't, I guess I'm good for a job at Newton's.

(_As he leaves room he is heard muttering._) Violence must stop!

MOLLY--I never knew father so set against a fight. What's he want to work in a coal yard for?

MRS. QUINN--Never fear, he won't work in a coal yard. Ye see Molly he's awful mad at the man who smashed yer arm. It makes him wild to think a fellow is free to go about harmin' innocent people, just because he thinks he sees red.

MOLLY--I hope he never finds the man.

MRS. QUINN--D'ye know, I think he has a hunch who did it. Oh, he won't hurt him! Father's been gettin' close to some hard home facts this day, and a good walk in the fresh night air will help him to digest them.

(_As curtain descends._) I'm so sorry about yer poor arm. Tell me, does it hurt you much?--etc.

_CURTAIN_

MURDERING SELINA

CAST

KING, _Editor of the Gazette_.

BART, _A Reporter_.

AN OFFICER.

A BOY.

A GENTLEMAN.

SELINA.

MISS BROWN.

TIME--_The Present._

PLACE--_A Little Cafe in the Park, Managed by Miss Brown._

Murdering Selina

_Scene--Interior of a frame restaurant in the park. At the left side, running almost the entire width of the room, is the counter at which one may buy soft-drinks, peanuts, pop-corn, newspapers, etc. A talking machine and telephone are on counter. Against the wall, at centre back, is a screen, behind it is a door to another room. At the right side, back, a table and couple of chairs. Small table and two chairs near front of stage, left. When curtain rises, Miss Brown and The Boy are discovered. Miss Brown is a red haired, good-hearted, sharp tongued old maid of uncertain years; positive in her opinions, quick in bodily action--giving one the impression of great nervous energy. The Boy is the typical roguish, rather fresh, "newsy" of fifteen, or thereabout._

_A fox trot is being played on the victrola, and The Boy is teaching the steps to Miss Brown, whom he is pulling around with spirited good-nature._

BOY--(_In time with music._) _Slow, slow, slow, slow, now fast, fast, fast, fast, fast, fastie, fastie, fast._

MISS BROWN--Oh, wait until I get me breath.

BOY--You gotta dance without it, see?

MISS BROWN--How can I dance with me wind all gone? Let go of me while I rest.

BOY--Aw, come on, and be a sport. All the girls is doin' the fox trot.

MISS BROWN--(_Pathetically._) My heavens, I ain't no girl.

BOY--Yer learnin' it fine. I bet if ye had a couple lessons ye'd put it all over that bunch at the pavilion.

MISS BROWN--(_Trying to stop._) Let go of me, will you?

BOY--_Slow, slow, slow_,--

MISS BROWN--Ye young snipe, can't ye see I'm ready to drop?

BOY--Aw, stop coddlin' yerself! Yer good for a mile yet.

MISS BROWN--(_Pulling herself free._) You run and get the papers. It's almost dark, and there ain't one here yet.

BOY--(_At victrola._) Well, I'm goin,' ain't I?

MISS BROWN--(_Out of breath._) Quit foolin' with that machine, and go get yer papers.

BOY--I won't be three minutes, and then we can try it again.

MISS BROWN--I think I've had enough. It ain't no game for an old hen.

(_Boy puts on sweater and cap._)

MISS BROWN--Is it four slow, and four fast?

BOY--No, that ain't right. Four slow, eight fast, then two turnin'

steps. See? (_Shows steps, then exits._)

MISS BROWN--(_Meditatively._) If I get goin' I suppose I'll be dotty, like the rest. This dance craze is certainly worse than hittin' up the booze. They say that Lizzie Smith, the hussy, roped that poor misguided Jones boy into marrying her with her dancing, though heaven knows I never saw nothin' in her grace or beauty. Oh, for ten years of my misspent youth. If I'd only learned the blamed thing before I lost my figure! (_Puts record on machine, and dances hesitatingly, counting "one, two, three, four," etc. Bart, much dishevelled rushes into room.

He is well dressed, but mussy looking, as if he had slept on a park bench for a night or two, and had not had recent acquaintance with hair or clothes brush. He b.u.mps against the peanuts on the edge of the counter, and scatters them all over the floor._)