_A moment after the rise of the curtain Lucy Belle enters, Left, carrying her hat and jacket. She advances to Center and lays them on the table. Her walk is listless and her eyes are bright with nervous fatigue. She glances at the alarm clock which stands on top of the cupboard, Left Center. The hands point to half-past twelve. She drops down in a chair to the left of the table and stares dismally before her. Presently she rests her elbows on her knees, bends forward, covers her face with her hands and gives way to a series of dry, racking sobs._ LUCY BELLE (_looking up eventually with a face full of woe_) Sam! Mah ole Sam-boy--come back ter me! Ain’ yo’ evah gwine ter come back? Honey-baby! Mah own honey-baby, buddy boy! (_From off stage, Right, as though proceeding from the upstairs room come the weird, discordant, thin strains of a hymn played on an old wheezy organ, and an old Negro can be heard singing it in deep, unsteady tones. Lucy Belle becomes momentarily composed and sits listening as though the music soothed her. In the course of several moments she rises, goes to the mirror which hangs on the wall, Right, and stands before it wiping her eyes and adjusting her hair._ _Presently the music stops, and someone can be heard coming slowly and heavily down the stairs, Right. Abruptly the door, Right, opens and old man Pocher enters. He is a very old Negro with white hair and a face seamed with wrinkles. His back is quite bent and he walks with the aid of a heavy, gnarled stick. His manner is a combination of the patriarchal-Calvinistic, and that of the homely, old, ante-bellum house servant. He wears an old black suit of clothes, green with age, and carries an old and very dusty felt hat._) LUCY BELLE H’yo’, Mistah Pocher! POCHER Howdy, chile--howdy! Ain’ yo’ wukkin’ terday? LUCY BELLE Sho’! Jes’ home fo’ a lil’ while. Gwine back d’rectly. POCHER (_with stern resentment_) Dem boys skylarkin’ agin las’ night--! LUCY BELLE Gawd sakes--! POCHER Put salt on de do’step--! LUCY BELLE De dirty devils--! POCHER Secon’ time dis week! Wust neighborhood I’se evah in! LUCY BELLE ’Deed I’se gwine ter stay home ternight an’ git ’em. POCHER (_fiercely_) Git so many evil sparits ’roun’ dat dey choke yo’ ter deaf in yo’ sleep. LUCY BELLE Ef dey don’ stop I’se gwine ter put de _po_-lice on ’em. POCHER Dey wuk on me night fo’ las’-- LUCY BELLE Who? POCHER Evil sparits! Wuk on me till I kain’t hardly breafe. Yo’ yere me wrestlin’ wid ’em? LUCY BELLE Gawd, no! POCHER Ain’ gwine ter put up wid it no longer. LUCY BELLE ’Deed I don’ want yo’ ter, Mistah Pocher. POCHER (_vehemently_) Ain’ gwine ter! All dey is ’bout it! LUCY BELLE Boys in dis alley ain’ had no bringin’ up. POCHER (_advancing to the door, Back_) Salt on de do’step wust thin’ in de worl’ ter bring evil sparits ’roun’. LUCY BELLE Yas, indeedy! I knows it is. POCHER (_at the door, Back_)