JIM. Sure. Forgot the convention. DAVE. Me and Lizbeth come together because we thought Sam and Em'ly'd stand up with us. JIM. At the Squire's? DAVE. No, preacher's. JIM. I reckon. [_Looks at_ EM'LY. EM'LY. Of course. JIM. Convention ain't met? DAVE. Not yit. JIM. I think I'll go down to the Court House. [_Starts down and stops as he reaches the stile._] Hello! SAM. What's up? JIM. Nothing'--some o' the boys--comin' here, I expect--Say! SAM. What? JIM. I mean Dave. DAVE. How's that? JIM. Will you do me a favour? DAVE. Certainly. JIM. [_Pointing off right._] This letter--give it to the Mayor, or any of the Council--some of them's sure to be at the convention. DAVE. All right. [_He goes onto the stile and stops._] Bollinger's one, ain't he? JIM. Yes. DAVE. He's comin' with them fellers-- JIM. Well, give it to him--a little before he gits here. DAVE. All right, Jim. [_Starts off--stops._] No trouble, you don't reckon? JIM. No, I reckon not. _Exit_ DAVE. EM'LY. Jim! JIM. I want you and Lizbeth to go in the house. Go on! EM'LY. [_Going._] What's the matter? JIM. You go with them, Sam--and take care of 'em. SAM. [_Joining the girls on the porch._] Why, Jim, if there's goin' to be any trouble-- JIM. [_Watching the coming mob._] I reckon they ain't--and anyway I want this side of the fence by myself. [_Exeunt_ LIZBETH _and_ EM'LY _to house._] Take 'em way back to the kitchen. SAM. [_At the door._] All right? JIM. Dead sure. _Exit_ SAM. JIM _removes his paper collar--adjusts the two guns under his coat-tails--takes a chew of tobacco, and fatefully waits. Enter back of fence_, BOLLINGER, SARBER, CAL, ESROM, DAVE, _and_ SUPERS; DAVE _drifts away from them to left._ ESROM _playing Jew's-harp. All enter when_ JIM _gets through his preparations and leans against porch._ BOLLINGER. [_Loudly._] Here, stop the band. SARBER. Stop her. ESROM _is silent._ BOLLINGER. [Pause.] Hello, Jim. [_His tone carries a nagging insinuation._ JIM. Hello. DAVE. I'll tell the old man, Jim. [_Going._ JIM. Oh, no hurry, Dave. _Exit_ DAVE. BOLLINGER. Well, they killed our friend down at Louisiana last night. [JIM _chews and nods once._] Where's your pony? JIM. [_After pause._] Have you looked in the stable? BOLLINGER. [_Sneering._] No. JIM. Well, don't. BOLLINGER. Didn't calculate to, Jim. [_Pause._] You know what that fellow said before they shot him. JIM. [_Shakes his head._] No. SARBER. [_In quarrelsome bawl. Pointing at_ JIM.] Why, he said-- BOLLINGER. [_Maintaining his leadership._] Hold on! it was understood I was to do the talkin'. ALL. Go on! Shut up, Sarber! SARBER. He was takin' all day fur it. BOLLINGER. [_Clashing._] I'll take as long as I damn please, and I'll have the nigger play tunes between times if I want to-- ALL. Go on, Bollinger! BOLLINGER. [_Resuming his nag of_ JIM.] Know what he said? JIM. [_Pause. Chews and shakes head._] Don't care. BOLLINGER. He said you _give_ him the pony.