Nevada

Silas. No; but I shall be if you ask any more questions.

Mother. Oh, come, be sociable! I came from Vermont myself.

Silas. Possible?

Mother. Yes: twelve years ago, with my husband, expecting to return in two years with a fortune; but in two years husband died.

Silas. Ah! A misfortune.

Mother. And here I've been ever since, the mother of this camp; and my boys – white, black, and yellow – take good care that I have my share of the dust.

Silas (shrugs shoulders). I understand – with a broom.

Mother. La, parson! don't bear malice: do you suppose I'd have struck you, if I'd an idea of your cloth?

Silas. Thank you. My coat is rather thin.

Mother. Expect to locate here? The boys would be mighty glad to have you; and they'd see that you had a peaceful hearing, if they had to shoot the whole congregation.

Silas. Would they? Very kind of the boys, but I hope they'd leave somebody to pass the contribution-box.

Mother. Vermont would see to the dust.

Silas. Who's Vermont?

Mother. The best of the lot, steady as a clock, but a powerful wrestler; that's his weakness.

Silas. Is it? I've a strong weakness in that line too.

Mother. You'd have no show with him. Now, parson —

Silas. Oh, drop that! This person is no parson, but, if the old saying is true, just the opposite; for I am a deacon's son.

Mother. The deuce you are!

Silas. No: the Deuce's grandson.

Mother. What's your name?

Silas. Silas Steele, jun. I'm the little one, and dad's the big Steele. I'm travelling for Busted's Balm.

Mother. Where do you expect to find it?

Silas. 'Tis found already. And, to spread abroad the glorious fact, I've taken a large contract; and it's the biggest undertaking any undertaker ever undertook. I never realized before that there was such a strong objection to clean white paint; but I've found it out now, for I've been peppered by indignant shot-guns, pounded by angry broomsticks, booted by revengeful brogans, and bulldozed by man's faithful friends, the puppies.

Mother. Then, you're only a pill-pedler, after all.

Silas. A pill-pedler! great Busted!

Mother. You said you were a missionary.

Silas. So I am. What nobler mission than mine, to proclaim to a suffering world, sunk in misery by aches and torments, the advent of the wonderful cure-all that will eradicate the ills with which the body groans, from bald head to bunions? For further particulars see small bills. (Looks off R.) Ah! there's a bowlder I missed; must secure that before Foggarty's Liniment, or some other quack nostrum, defaces the fair face of nature with a lie. (Goes up run, turns.) Good-by, widow. Give the parson's benediction to the boys. (Exit.)

Mother. Well, of all harum-scarum chaps, he's the tongueyist; I couldn't get a word in edgeways.

(Enter Vermont, R. 2 E.)

Vermont. Little one come, widder?

Mother. No: supper's all ready for her.

Vermont. Stage's about due. Widder, I've a little matter on my mind I'd like to pan out afore the little one gets here.

Mother. About her?

Vermont (sits on rock R.). Yes, about her. It's ten years, widder, since your old man passed in his checks, and had a hole scooped for him out there under the hill.

Mother (sighs). Ah, yes!

Vermont. It was jest about that time that I dropped into your ranch one dark night, with a little girl in my arms. She might have been a five-year old —

Mother. Or six: we never could make out. She was burning with fever. You found her in a basket, floating in the creek.

Vermont. Exactly. That's what I told you, and I brought her to you because you was the only female woman in the camp.

Mother. Yes: bless her! she brought luck with her.

Vermont. You bet she did. Those little ones always do. Well, I read a long while ago, while prospecting in the big book, – that's pay-dirt way down to bed-rock, – about that king pin what struck the little game "Faro," and named it arter hisself, how he had a darter what found a baby floating in a creek, and called it "Moses;" and, as I warnt goin' back on scripter, I named our little one Moses too.

Mother. And, as that was not a girl's name, I changed it to Moselle.

Vermont. That was too Frenchy for the boys; so they split the dif, and called her Mosey.

Mother. And Mosey is just worshipped by the boys. I believe, if you would let them, they would cover her with gold.

Vermont (rising). Likely. But, when I washed that nugget outer the creek, I staked a claim in which I wanted no partners. Says I, "Vermont, here's a chance for you to use your dust, and don't you forget it." I believe the angels dropped one of their little sisters into the creek, to make an ugly old sinner ashamed of his wickedness. (Passes his arm across his eyes.) Widder, you've been a mother to her, and a good one.

Mother. And you, the best of fathers. Every year you've sent her off to school, and to-day she comes back to us —

Vermont. With Tom Carew, our Tom, the handsomest and squarest miner in the diggin's. I wouldn't trust the bringin' of her home to any other of the boys.

Mother. Except Dick: she's very fond of Dick.

Vermont. Dandy Dick, as the boys call him. Oh, he's well enough for a short acquaintance. He's only been here six months, and there's something about him – Well, if Mosey likes him, it's all right.

Jube (outside R.). Hi, hi! Mudder Merton, de stage am come, Mosey's to hum.

(Enter Jube, down run, with a hat-box under one arm, a valise in hand, followed by Win-Kye with a valise in left hand, an umbrella spread over his head. Jube comes down L., Win-Kye drops valise on platform, tumbles over it, and mixes himself up with the umbrella.)