Poison

Twitters. A sweet tooth leads through a heap of dentist’s bills to a set of false ones. I can’t have you eating these horrid sweet things, candies, sweet-meats, ices, and jams. Your dentist’s bills ruin – (he has pulled her coffee cup towards him, and put salt into it).

Clara. What are you doing with my coffee, papa?

Twitters. Putting salt in it; it’s not coffee that hurts you, it’s the mixture of coffee and sugar. I read somewhere that coffee and sugar together make leather.

Clara. No, papa; tea and milk.

Twitters. Coffee and sugar! (Aside.) Of course the letter’s a hoax. It doesn’t disconcert me. But to think of my partner having a monument detailing his Christian virtues! He always passed the contribution box, and, now I think of it, he used to have a great deal of loose change of a Monday. Read me the paper, dear.

Clara. I don’t like reading aloud. The newspapers are so full of politics and murders and business and accidents.

Twitters. I regard the daily paper as a necessary part of every young girl’s education. Here it is.

Clara (reading). “Double hanging in Atlanta! Pernicious poisoning. A diabolical crime.”

Twitters (starting). Eh!

Clara (reading). “A man poisoned by lemonade administered by his wife. The post-mortem reveals distinct traces of arsenic in the stomach.”

Twitters. Clara! Where was it?

Clara. O, in Kalamazoo, or some such horrid western place.

Twitters. Kalamazoo! Great heavens!

Clara. How can a horrid man in Kalamazoo concern us?

Twitters. In no way my dear. (Aside.) I must dissemble – go on.

Clara (reading). “The unfortunate couple were well known in the highest social circles. The married life of the twain had been unmarred by a cloud. It seems most strange that a train of circumstantial evidence is wound around the unhappy wife, which points” – (stops). Papa, dear, how can a chain point.

Twitters. Continue your reading, flippant girl.

Clara (reading). “Which points at her as the murderess. It seems that, with a noteworthy economy, she alone of the household had access to the sugar barrel.” (Turns and refolds paper.)

Twitters (aside). The sugar barrel! In far-off Kalamazoo! That letter bears the stamp of truth.

Clara (having folded paper, reads). “The lemonade was prepared with her own hands. Traces of arsenic were found in the glass from which the victim drank his last drink; and in the barrel of sugar, which had but just arrived from the highly respectable store of Spicer & Co., not less than half an ounce has already been discovered – ” What stupid stuff! Why, papa! What is the matter?

Twitters (with his head on his hands, in agony). Nothing, my dear nothing. It is so terrible to think of all that suffering (Enter Hunker).

Hunker. Mr. Twitters, I believe.

Twitters. Yes, what do you want? (Seizing and pocketing paper.)

Hunker. Your servant was not disposed to introduce me, so I take the liberty of introducing myself.

Twitters. I’m not well this morning, sir.

Hunker (sitting down.) Naturally enough. The morning news doesn’t agree with you, I presume.

Twitters (nervous). I don’t understand you.

Hunker. I have a little business with you – rather private nature. You might prefer to have our young friend here leave the room.

Clara (rising with dignity). I am going, papa.

Hunker. Good day – Miss Twitters, I reckon – pleased to have met you. Hope to see more of you. (Exit Clara.)

Twitters. And now, sir, who are you?

Hunker. “A foe to capital, and the grand master of a society organized to cripple said capital, muzzle monopolists and elevate the horny-handed son of toil” – at your service, sir.

Twitters. Ah, you wrote me a letter this morning?

Hunker. I did.

Twitters. The writers of anonymous letters are dealt with according to the law.

Hunker. So are venders of poisoned food.

Twitters. I don’t believe a word of your story.

Hunker (calmly and deliberately producing papers, which he turns over). I have proofs that arsenic was in the sugar, that the sugar was sold by the copartnership of Tollgate & Twitters, that one if not both of said firm knew of this rather unpleasant adulteration. (Twitters grabs at papers.) Don’t lose your self-control, Twitters, I never do. There are copies.

Twitters. Granting your proofs, then, – supposing the whole thing true, you, the poisoner, will suffer more than I, the victim.

Hunker (calmly). I shall turn State’s evidence.

Twitters (sinking back in chair). Good heavens!

Hunker. See here, Twitters. I’m a fair minded man. In practically maintaining sound economic principles, I’ve concocted a scrape. We’re both in it. We must back each other up.

Twitters. What do you want me to do?

Hunker. Well, I ain’t comfortable.

Twitters. Neither am I.

Hunker. Naturally; you don’t like the prospect of hanging, and I don’t like the prospect of continuing to breakfast from early morning milk-cans, and to bone newspapers to keep me in tobacco. Now, you make me comfortable and I’ll guarantee you shan’t swing.

Twitters. Well, well, how much do you want?

Hunker. I aint mean in money matters. Let’s see – By Jove, Twitters, I like the looks of this box of yours. I’ll make you a visit.

Twitters. I’m not joking, sir.

Hunker. No more am I, – I have proofs; first, that arsenic was in the sugar; second —