University of Virginia Library

SCENE I

A street in New Orleans. Enter Gumption Cute, meeting Marks.

CUTE:

How do ye dew?

MARKS:

How are you?

CUTE:

Well, now, squire, it's a fact that I am dead broke and busted up.

MARKS:

You have been speculating, I suppose!

CUTE:

That's just it and nothing shorter.

MARKS:

You have had poor success, you say?

CUTE:

Tarnation bad, now I tell you. You see I came to this part of the
country to make my fortune.

MARKS:

And you did not do it?

CUTE:

Scarcely. The first thing I tried my hand at was keeping school. I
opened an academy for the instruction of youth in the various branches of or-
thography, geography, and other graphies.

MARKS:

Did you succeed in getting any pupils?

CUTE:

Oh, lots on 'em! and a pretty set of dunces they were too. After the
first quarter, I called on the repectable parents of the juveniles, and requested
them to fork over. To which they politely answered—don't you wish you may
get it?

MARKS:

What did you do then?

CUTE:

Well, I kind of pulled up stakes and left those diggins. Well then I
went into Spiritual Rappings for a living. That paid pretty well for a short time,
till I met with an accident.

MARKS:

An accident?

CUTE:

Yes; a tall Yahoo called on me one day, and wanted me to summon
the spirit of his mother—which, of course, I did. He asked me about a dozen
questions which I answered to his satisfaction. At last he wanted to know what
she died of—I said, Cholera. You never did see a critter so riled as he was. `Look
yere, stranger,' said he, `it's my opinion that you're a pesky humbug! for my
mother was blown up in a Steamboat!' with that he left the premises. The next
day the people furnished me with a conveyance, and I rode out of town.

MARKS:

Rode out of town?

CUTE:

Yes; on a rail!

MARKS:

I suppose you gave up the spirits, after that?

CUTE:

Well, I reckon I did; it had such an effect on my spirits.

MARKS:

It's a wonder they didn't tar and feather you.

CUTE:

There was some mention made of that, but when they said feathers, I
felt as if I had wings and flew away.

MARKS:

You cut and run?

CUTE:

Yes; I didn't like their company and I cut it. Well, after that I let
myself out as an overseer on a cotton plantation. I made a pretty good thing of
that, though it was dreadful trying to my feelings to flog the darkies; but I got
used to it after a while, and then I used to lather 'em like Jehu. Well, the pro-
prietor got the fever and ague and shook himself out of town. The place and all
the fixings were sold at auction and I found myself adrift once more.

MARKS:

What are you doing at present?

CUTE:

I'm in search of a rich relation of mine.

MARKS:

A rich relation?

CUTE:

Yes, a Miss Ophelia St. Clare. You see, a niece of hers married one
of my second cousins—that's how I came to be a relation of hers. She came on
here from Vermont to be housekeeper to a cousin of hers, of the same name.

MARKS:

I know him well.

CUTE:

The deuce you do!—well, that's lucky.

MARKS:

Yes, he lives in this city.

CUTE:

Say, you just point out the locality, and I'll give him a call.

MARKS:

Stop a bit. Suppose you shouldn't be able to raise the wind in that
quarter, what have you thought of doing?

CUTE:

Well, nothing particular.

MARKS:

How should you like to enter into a nice, profitable business—one
that pays well?

CUTE:

That's just about my measure—it would suit me to a hair. What is
it?

MARKS:

Nigger catching.

CUTE:

Catching niggers! What on airth do you mean?

MARKS:

Why, when there's a large reward offered for a runaway darkey,
we goes after him, catches him, and gets the reward.

CUTE:

Yes, that's all right so far—but s'pose there ain't no reward offered?

MARKS:

Why, then we catches the darkey on our own account, sells him,
and pockets the proceeds.

CUTE:

By chowder, that ain't a bad speculation!

MARKS:

What do you say? I want a partner. You see, I lost my partner
last year, up in Ohio—he was a powerful fellow.

CUTE:

Lost him! How did you lose him?

MARKS:

Well, you see, Tom and I—his name was Tom Loker—Tom and I
were after a mulatto chap, called George Harris, that run away from Kentucky.
We traced him though the greater part of Ohio, and came up with him near the
Pennsylvania line. He took refuge among some rocks, and showed fight.

CUTE:

Oh! then runaway darkies show fight, do they?

MARKS:

Sometimes. Well, Tom—like a headstrong fool as he was—rushed
up the rocks, and a Quaker chap, who was helping this George Harris, threw
him over the cliff.

CUTE:

Was he killed?

MARKS:

Well, I didn't stop to find out. Seeing that the darkies were
stronger than I thought, I made tracks for a safe place.

CUTE:

And what became of this George Harris?

MARKS:

Oh! he and his wife and child got away safe into Canada. You see,
they will get away sometimes though it isn't very often. Now what do you say?
You are just the figure for a fighting partner. Is it a bargain?

CUTE:

Well, I rather calculate our teams won't hitch, no how. By chowder,
I hain't no idea of setting myself up as a target for darkies to fire at—that's a
speculation that don't suit my constitution.

MARKS:

You're afraid, then?

CUTE:

No, I ain't, it's against my principles.

MARKS:

Your principles—how so?

CUTE:

Because my principles are to keep a sharp lookout for No. 1. I
shouldn't feel wholesome if a darkie was to throw me over that cliff to look after
Tom Loker. (Extent arm-in-arm.)