WOMAN: Yes. Him sleep.
SMITHERS: ‘E’s bound to find out soon as wakes up. ‘E’s cunnin’ enough to know when ‘is time’s come.
[He goes to the doorway on right and whistles shrilly with his fingers in his mouth. The old woman springs to her feet and runs out of the doorway, rear. Smithers goes after her, reaching for his revolver.] Stop or I’ll shoot! [then stopping—indifferently]
Pop orf then, if yer like, yer black cow. [He stands in the doorway, looking after her.]
[Jones enters from the right. He is a tall, powerfully-built, full-blooded negro of middle age. His features are typically negroid, yet there is something decidedly distinctive about his face—an underlying strength of will, a hardy, self-reliant confidence in himself that inspires respect. His eyes are alive with a keen, cunning intelligence. In manner he is shrewd, suspicious, evasive. He wears a light blue uniform coat, sprayed with brass buttons, heavy gold chevrons on his shoulders, gold braid on the collar, cuffs, etc. His pants are bright red with a light blue stripe down the side. Patent leather laced boots with brass spurs, and a belt with a long-barreled, pearl-handled revolver in a holster complete his makeup. Yet there is something not altogether ridiculous about his grandeur. He has a way of carrying it off.]
JONES: [Not seeing anyone—greatly irritated and blinking sleepily—shouts] Who dare whistle dat way in my palace? Who dare wake up de Emperor? I’ll git de hide frayled off some o’ you niggers sho’!
SMITHERS: [Showing himself—in a manner half-afraid and half-defiant] It was me whistled to yer. [As Jones frowns angrily] I got news for yer.
JONES: [Putting on his suavest manner, which fails to cover up his contempt for the white man] Oh, it’s you, Mister Smithers. [He sits down on his throne with easy dignity.] What news you got to tell me?
SMITHERS: [coming close to enjoy his discomfiture] Don’t yer notice nothin’ funny today?
JONES: [coldly] Funny? No. I ain’t perceived nothin’ of de kind!
SMITHERS: Then yer ain’t so foxy as I thought yer was. Where’s all your court? [sarcastically] The Generals and the Cabinet Ministers and all?
JONES: [Imperturbably] Where dey mostly runs to minute I closes my eyes—drinkin’ rum and talkin’ big down in de town. [sarcastically] How come you don’t know dat? Ain’t you sousin’ with ‘em most everyday?
SMITHERS: [stung but pretending indifference—with a wink] That’s part of the day’s work. I got ter—ain’t I—in my business?
JONES: [Contemptuously] Yo’ business!
SMITHERS: [imprudently enraged] Gawd blimey, you was glad enough for me ter take yer in on it when you landed here first. And didn’ ‘ave no ‘igh and mighty airs in them days!
JONES: [His hand going to his revolver like a flash—menacingly] Talk polite, white man! Talk polite, you heah me! I’m boss heah now, is you fergettin’?
[The Cockney seems about to challenge this last statement with the facts but something in the other’s eyes holds and cows him.]
SMITHERS: [In a cowardly whine] No ‘arm meant, old top.
JONES: [Condescendingly] I accepts yo’ apology. [lets his hand fall from his revolver] No use’n you rakin’ up ole times. What I was den is one thing. What I is now ‘s another. You didn’t let me in on yo’ crooked work out o’ no kind feelin’s dat time. I done de dirty work fo’ you—and most o’ de brain work, too, fo’ dat matter—and I was wu’th money to you, dat’s de reason.
SMITHERS: Well, blimey, I give yer a start, didn’t I—when no one else would. I wasn’t afraid to ‘ire yer like the rest was—’count of the story about your breakin’ jail back in the States.
JONES: No, you didn’t have no s’cuse to look down on me fo’ dat. You been in jail you’self more’n once.
SMITHERS: [Furiously] It’s a lie! [Then trying to pass it off by an attempt at scorn] Garn! Who told yer that fairy tale?
JONES: Dey’s some tings I ain’t got to be tole. I kin see ‘em in folk’s eyes. [Then after a pause—meditatively] Yes, you sho’ give me a start. And it didn’t take long from dat time to git dese fool, woods’ niggers right where I wanted dem. [with pride] From stowaway to Emperor in two years! Dat’s goin’ some!
SMITHERS: [With curiosity] And I bet you got yer pile o’ money ‘id safe some place.
JONES: [With satisfaction] I sho’ has! And it’s in a foreign bank where no pusson don’t ever git it out but me no matter what come. You didn’t s’pose I was holdin’ down dis Emperor job for de glory in it, did you? Sho’! De fuss and glory part of it, dat’s only to turn de heads o’ de low-flung, bush niggers dat’s here. Dey wants de big circus show for deir money. I gives it to ‘em an’ I gits de money. [With a grin] De long green, dat’s me every time! [Then rebukingly] But you ain’t got no kick agin me, Smithers. I’se paid you back all you done for me many times. Ain’t I pertected you and winked at all de crooked tradin’ you been doin’ right out in de broad day. Sho’. I has—and me makin’ laws to stop it at de same time! [He chuckles.]
SMITHERS: [Grinning] But, meanin’ no ‘arm, you been grabbin’ right and left yourself, ain’t yer? Look at the taxes you’ve put on ‘em! Blimey! You’ve squeezed ‘em dry!
JONES: [Chuckling]: No, dey ain’t all dry yet. I’se still heah, ain’t I?
SMITHERS: [Smiling at his secret thought] They’re dry right now, you’ll find out. [Changing the subject abruptly] And as for me breakin’ laws, you’ve broke ‘em all yerself just as fast as yer made ‘em.
JONES: Ain’t r de Emperor? De laws don’t go for him. [judicially] You heah what I tells you, Smithers. Dere’s little stealin’ like you does, and dere’s big stealin’ like I does. For de little stealin’ dey gits you in jail soon or late. For de big stealin’ dey makes you Emperor and puts you in de Hall o’ Fame when you croaks. [reminiscently] If dey’s one thing I learns in ten years on de Pullman ca’s listenin’ to de white quality talk, it’s dat same fact. And when I gits a chance to use it I winds up Emperor in two years.
SMITHERS: [Unable to repress the genuine admiration of the small fry for the large] Yes, yer turned the bleedin’ trick, all fight. Blimey, I never seen a bloke ‘as ‘ad the bloomin’ luck you ‘as.
JONES: [Severely] Luck? What you mean—luck?
SMITHERS: I suppose you’ll say as that swank about the silver bullet ain’t luck—and that was what first got the fool blacks on yer side the time of the revolution, wasn’t it?
JONES: [With a laugh] Oh, dat silver bullet! Sho’ was luck! But I makes dat luck, you heah? I loads de dice! Yessuh! When dat murderin’ nigger ole Lem hired to kill me takes aim ten feet away and his gun misses fire and I shoots him dead, what you heah me say?
SMITHERS: You said yer’d got a charm so’s no lead bullet’d kill yer. You was so strong only a silver bullet could kill yer, you told ‘em. Blimey, wasn’t that swank for yer—and plain, fat-’eaded luck?
JONES: [Proudly] I got brains and I uses ‘em quick. Dat ain’t luck.
SMITHERS: Yer know they wasn’t ‘ardly likely to get no silver bullets. And it was luck ‘e didn’t ‘it you that time.
JONES: [Laughing] And dere all dem fool, bush niggers was kneelin’ down and bumpin’ deir heads on de ground like I was a miracle out o’ de Bible Oh Lawd, from dat time on I has dem all eatin’ out of my hand. I cracks de whip and dey jumps through.
SMITHERS: [With a sniff] Yankee bluff done it.
JONES: Ain’t a man’s talkin’ big what makes him big-long as he makes folks believe it? Sho’, I talks large