The Octoroon

Mrs. P. My nephew, Mr. Peyton.

M'Closky. O, how d'ye do, sir? [Offers hand, George bows coldly, R. C.] [aside.] A puppy, if he brings any of his European airs here we'll fix him. – [Aloud.] Zoe, tell Pete to give my mare a feed, will ye?

George. [Angrily.] Sir.

M'Closky. Hillo! did I tread on ye?

Mrs. P. What is the matter with George?

Zoe. [Takes fan from Minnie.] Go, Minnie, tell Pete; run!

    [Exit Minnie, R.

Mrs. P. Grace, attend to Mr. M'Closky.

M'Closky. A julep, gal, that's my breakfast, and a bit of cheese,

George. [Aside to Mrs. Peyton.] How can you ask that vulgar ruffian to your table?

Mrs. P. Hospitality in Europe is a courtesy; here, it is an obligation. We tender food to a stranger, not because he is a gentleman, but because he is hungry.

George. Aunt, I will take my rifle down to the Atchafalaya. Paul has promised me a bear and a deer or two. I see my little Nimrod yonder, with his Indian companion. Excuse me ladies. Ho! Paul! [Enters house.]

Paul. [Outside.] I'ss, Mas'r George.

Enter Paul, R. U. E., with Indian, who goes up

Sunny. It's a shame to allow that young cub to run over the Swamps and woods, hunting and fishing his life away instead of hoeing cane.

Mrs. P. The child was a favorite of the judge, who encouraged his gambols. I couldn't bear to see him put to work.

George. [Returning with rifle.] Come, Paul, are you ready?

Paul. I'ss, Mas'r George. O, golly! ain't that a pooty gun.

M'Closky. See here, you imps; if I catch you, and your red skin yonder, gunning in my swamps, I'll give you rats, mind; them vagabonds, when the game's about, shoot my pigs.

[Exit George into house.]

Paul. You gib me rattan, Mas'r Clostry, but I guess you take a berry long stick to Wahnotee; ugh, he make bacon of you.

M'Closky. Make bacon of me, you young whelp. Do you mean that I'm a pig? Hold on a bit. [Seizes whip, and holds Paul.]

Zoe. O, sir! don't, pray, don't.

M'Closky. [Slowly lowering his whip,] Darn you, red skin, I'll pay you off some day, both of ye. [Returns to table and drinks.]

Sunny. That Indian is a nuisance. Why don't he return to his nation out West?

M'Closky. He's too fond of thieving and whiskey.

Zoe. No; Wahnotee is a gentle, honest creature, and remains here because he loves that boy with the tenderness of a woman. When Paul was taken down with the swamp fever the Indian sat outside the hut, and neither ate, slept, or spoke for five days, till the child could recognize and call him to his bedside. He who can love so well is honest – don't speak ill of poor Wahnotee.

Mrs. P. Wahnotee, will you go back to your people?

Wahnotee. Sleugh.

Paul. He don't understand; he speaks a mash-up of Indian and Mexican. Wahnotee Patira na sepau assa wigiran.

Wahnotee. Weal Omenee.

Paul. Says he'll go if I'll go with him. He calls me Omenee, the Pigeon, and Miss Zoe is Ninemoosha, the Sweetheart.

Wahnotee. [Pointing to Zoe.] Ninemoosha.

Zoe. No, Wahnotee, we can't spare Paul.

Paul. If Omenee remain, Wahnotee will die in Terrebonne. [During the dialogue Wahnotee has taken George's gun.]

Enter George, L

George. Now I'm ready. [George tries to regain his gun; Wahnoteerefuses to give it up; Paul, quietly takes it from him and remonstrates with him.]

Dora. Zoe, he's going; I want him to stay and make love to me that's what I came for to-day.

Mrs. P. George, I can't spare Paul for an hour or two; he must run over to the landing; the steamer from New Orleans passed up the river last night, and if there's a mail they have thrown it ashore.

Sunny. I saw the mail-bags lying in the shed this morning.

Mrs. P. I expect an important letter from Liverpool; away with you, Paul; bring the mail-bags here.

Paul. I'm 'most afraid to take Wahnotee to the shed, there's rum there.

Wahnotee. Rum!

Paul. Come, then, but if I catch you drinkin', O, laws a mussey, you'll get snakes! I'll gib it you! now mind.

    [Exit with Indian, R. U. E.

George. Come, Miss Dora, let me offer you my arm.

Dora. Mr. George, I am afraid, if all we hear is true, you have led a dreadful life in Europe.

George. That's a challenge to begin a description of my feminine adventures.

Dora. You have been in love, then?

George. Two hundred and forty-nine times! Let me relate you the worst cases.