JOE.  Hunting who?

BOLLINGER. [Intolerant of JOE’S stupidity.] Why, Travers.

JIM. [In quiet contrast.] Where’d he go?

BOLLINGER.  Right through the window—­knocked over both them green lights—­kicked a box o’ lickerish all over the sidewalk—­kin you spare one?

JOE. [Bustling about.] I ain’t got but one, and I reckon I’ll take a hand myself.

JIM. [To EM’LY.] Come, little gal, we got to go home.

JOE. [At door.  Calls.] Ma—­ma!—­Say, Jim, you can’t resign to-night—­I knowed they’d be trouble if you quit.

JIM.  Better meet at the Court House. [Exit with EM’LY and passes window going left.

Enter MRS. VERNON.

JOE.  Where’s my gun?

MRS. VERNON.  What you want it fur?

JOE. [Who is running a circle.] What do you s’pose—­fry eggs?  Where is it?

LIZBETH.  Travers killed a man.

MRS. VERNON. [Adding her part to the hubbub.] Lor’!  Travers!

JOE.  Where is it, Lizbeth?

BOLLINGER.  Ain’t you got anything you kin lend me?

MRS. VERNON.  Here it is. [Hands gun.

JOE.  Loaded?

MRS. VERNON.  Don’t pint it.

JOE.  That—­the butt end—­come on!

BOLLINGER.  A butcher-knife’s better than nothing.

LIZBETH.  Here! [Hands knife to BOLLINGER.

DAVE. [As LIZBETH holds him.] You don’t think I’m scared.

Exeunt BOLLINGER and JOE.

MRS. VERNON.  I don’t want you to shoot anybody, Joe; pint it in the air.

DAVE exits; when off calls “Good-bye!”

MRS. VERNON. [Impatient in doorway.] I can’t see what business it is of Dave’s when they’s three policemen in town; uniforms—­where’s Em’ly?

LIZBETH.  Jim took her home.

MRS. VERNON.  Did somebody say Travers?

LIZBETH.  Yes.

Enter Kate.

KATE.  What is it?

LIZBETH.  Travers shot a man.

KATE.  What man—­why?

MRS. VERNON. [Accusingly.] Jus’ natural deviltry—­purty pass things is coming to!

KATE.  Whom did he shoot?

LIZBETH.  We don’t know—­shot him here, in the neck.

Enter Sarber from street, hurriedly.

SARBER.  Hello,—­where’s the boys?

MRS. VERNON.  Have they ketched him?

SARBER.  Don’t know—­we’re all huntin’—­[Starts off.

KATE. [Quickly.] Mr. Sarber—­

SARBER.  Eh?

KATE.  Who is hurt?

SARBER. [Shouting.] Don’t know his name—­Clark stuffed the hole full of cotton. [Indicating neck.] Says city’ll have to pay for his green lights and lickorish.

KATE.  Did Mr. Travers shoot the man?

SARBER.  Yes’m—­nearer than you an’ me—­which way’d they go?