LUCY BELLE

LUCY BELLE

Who say yo’ ain’—?

[31]

[31]

LIZZIE

LIZZIE

Yo’ stan’ dere an’ act like somebody was gwine ter steal him—right from under yo’ nose—!

LUCY BELLE

LUCY BELLE

I don’ know w’at yo’ talkin’ ’bout—!

LIZZIE (mockingly)

LIZZIE

No—yo’ don’ know nuffin’—! To yere yo’ talk, yo’d think yo’ owned Sam—got him chain up like a dawg—! Mah soul—! (Vehemently.) Listen ter me, gal—he’s an’ ole frien’-a mine—an’ I wants ter see him—’bout some bus’ness—an’ ef yo’ know w’ats good fo’ yo’—yo’ bettah quit dis lyin’ an’ beatin’ ’roun’ de bush—an’—

(Footsteps and whistling are heard off stage, Back. Lizzie breaks off abruptly and both stand listening. A moment later the door, Back, opens and Slim Dorsey enters. He is a tall, slender, light-colored Negro of about twenty-four. He wears a cap pulled around so that the visor slants over one ear, and an old ragged suit of clothes. He glares at Lizzie and nods.)

SLIM (as he slouches toward Left Center)

SLIM

’Lo Luce.

LIZZIE (as she sidles toward the door, Back—to Lucy Belle)

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