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California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

doctor'll

How many times the word 'doctor'll' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

excitedly

How many times the word 'excitedly' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

stood

How many times the word 'stood' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

removing

How many times the word 'removing' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

hand

How many times the word 'hand' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

dreaded

How many times the word 'dreaded' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

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California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

dispose

How many times the word 'dispose' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

hoss

How many times the word 'hoss' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

just

How many times the word 'just' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

stormy

How many times the word 'stormy' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

get

How many times the word 'get' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

leave

How many times the word 'leave' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

i'll--

How many times the word 'i'll--' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

emitted

How many times the word 'emitted' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

midnight

How many times the word 'midnight' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

poverty

How many times the word 'poverty' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

proportion

How many times the word 'proportion' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

dr.

How many times the word 'dr.' appears in the text?

California in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? And she didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with her own lips?" He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, now crouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyes never left the buggy for a moment. When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically to one side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudging the time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hour later that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide. Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced now that they meant to take the down train which would pass the Clayton train at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to save Annette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of the irresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited until he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them. Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was evidently trying to reassure her. As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck straight out from the shoulder. "If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie. I'm here." Carter stopped his horse. "Will you get down?" he demanded angrily. "After you," said Sandy. Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly followed. "And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what you mean." Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when he spoke it was to her. "If it's your wish to go on, say the word." The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable, but declined to make any remarks. "Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter, striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement. "We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler and a fool!" "Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be wanting his coffee by now." "Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver. "None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by, Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times' sake." Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man clings to a spar. "I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad this way! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!" Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling from head to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord. He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette's words he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy. "You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is that he will meet me as soon as we get back to town." "I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at her bags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, why d-did I come?" "My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps your disinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive you back." "But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too. I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home, and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents." She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled. "You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. You have just three minutes to make up your mind." [Illustration: "Sandy saw her waver"] Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second at Carter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he was in the buggy and turning the horse homeward. "But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically. "Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind." "Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across the horse's back. Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, while the would-be bride shed bitter tears on the shoulder of the would-be suicide. The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk. For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied at something in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figure on all fours plunging back into the shrubbery. "Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?" "Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!" "What did he look like? Tell me, quick!" "He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do you suppose he was hiding?" "It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing up in the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness. "Why, he's in jail!" "May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn't Ricks!" When they started they found that the harness was broken, and all efforts to fix it were in vain. "It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get home b-before dad, he'll have out the fire department." "There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too far for you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go for help?" "Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly. Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's not one of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to get home?" Annette was not without resources. "What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?" "And you?" asked Sandy. "I'll ride behind." They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterly resented a double burden. When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom, and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon at their destination. "He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveled companion to the ground. "It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "I lost every hair-pin but one." At the farm-house they met with a warm reception. "Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll take care of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and another hoss." The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Bright red window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside, and the fire crackled merrily in the stove. Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendly warmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper, but he had grown silent and preoccupied. The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporary narcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretched consciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else. "They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette. "What?" "The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue. "Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry. He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever? Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him. "Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long sweetening or short?" "Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy, what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?" Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite. The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her guests. "I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for another one?" "Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the eager housewife. Sandy looked at her and smiled. "I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes." When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette developed a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while the men patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire of questions. After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fog of his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale. A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. He patiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder. "There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning." "I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-bout being in love." Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heart knew of the depths through which he was passing. "Do you love him very much?" he asked. She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to." "He's not worth it." "He is!" A strained silence, then he said: "Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?" "Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, he would walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson." "He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all his fault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's the wise man to try to keep you from being his wife." "Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has to d-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were so mean." "Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in the morning?" "Indeed, I won't!" Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do." She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declared she would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her start angrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back. "Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home." "And you promise?" She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the very m-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, and I'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak to you as long as I live." At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full of people and great excitement prevailed. "They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her long silence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?" Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would not cause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy and called to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?" Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one huge question-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers. "That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. It was at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. They say the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to go after Wilson." At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot! Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go to the judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don't you be letting them start without me, Jimmy." Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through the crowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike. Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously out into the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light of the room behind her, but Sandy did not see her. His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore at his brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other was to capture Ricks Wilson. CHAPTER XXI IN THE DARK An ominous stillness hung over Hollis farm as Sandy ran up the avenue. The night was dark, but the fallen snow gave a half-mysterious light to the quiet scene. He stepped on the porch with a sinking heart. In the dimly lighted hall Mr. Moseley and Mr. Meech kept silent watch, their faces grave with apprehension. Without stopping to speak to them, Sandy hurried to the door of the judge's room. Before he could turn the knob, Dr. Fenton opened it softly and, putting his finger on his lips, came out, cautiously closing the door behind him. "You can't go in," he whispered; "the slightest excitement might finish him. He's got one chance in a hundred, boy; we've got to nurse it." "Does he know?" "Never has known a thing since the bullet hit him. He was coming into the sitting-room when Wilson fired through the window." "The black-hearted murderer!" cried Sandy. "I could swear I saw him hiding in the bushes between here and the Junction." The doctor threw a side glance at Mr. Meech, then said significantly: "Have they started?" "Not yet. If there's nothing I can do for the judge, I'm going with them." "That's right. I'd go, too, if I were not needed here. Wait a minute, Sandy." His face looked old and worn. "Have you happened to see my Nettie since noon?" "That I have, doctor. She was driving with me, and the harness broke. She's home now." "Thank God!" cried the doctor. "I thought it was Nelson." Sandy passed through the dining-room and was starting up the steps when he heard his name spoken. "Mist' Sandy! 'Fore de Lawd, where you been at? Oh, we been habin' de terriblest times! My pore old mas'r done been shot down wifout bein' notified or nuthin'. Pray de Lawd he won't die! I knowed somepin' was gwine happen. I had a division jes 'fore daybreak; dey ain't no luck worser den to dream 'bout a tooth fallin' out. Oh, Lordy! Lordy! I hope he ain't gwine die!" "Hush, Aunt Melvy! Where's Mrs. Hollis?" "She's out in de kitchen, heatin' water an' waitin' on de doctor. She won't let me do nuthin'. Seems lak workin' sorter lets off her feelin's. Pore Miss Sue!" She threw her apron over her head and swayed and sobbed. As Sandy tried to pass, she stopped him again, and after looking furtively around she fumbled in her pocket for something which she thrust into his hand. "Hit's de pistol!" she whispered. "I's skeered to give it to nobody else, 'ca'se I's skeered dey'd try me for a witness. He done drap it 'longside de kitchen door. You won't let on I found it, honey? You won't tell nobody?" He reassured her, and hastened to his room. Lighting his lamp, he hurriedly changed his coat for a heavier, and was starting in hot haste for the door when his eyes fell upon the pistol, which he had laid on the table. It was a fine, pearl-handled revolver, thirty-eight caliber. He looked at it closer, then stared blankly at the floor. He had seen it before that afternoon. "Why, Carter must have given Ricks the pistol," he thought. "But Carter was out at the Junction. What time did it happen?" He sat on the side of the bed and, pressing his hands to his temples, tried to force the events to take their proper sequence. "I don't know when I left town," he thought, with a shudder; "it must have been nearly four when I met Carter and Annette. He took the train back. Yes, he would have had time to help Ricks. But I saw Ricks out the turnpike. It was half-past five, I remember now. The doctor said the judge was shot at a quarter of six." A startled look of comprehension flashed over his face. He sprang to his feet and tramped up and down the small room. "I know I saw Ricks," he thought, his brain seething with excitement. "Annette saw him, too; she described him. He couldn't have even driven back in that time." He stopped again and stood staring intently before him. Then he took the lamp and slipped down the back stairs and out the side door. The snow was trampled about the window and for some space beyond it. The tracks had been followed to the river, the eager searchers keeping well away from the tell-tale footsteps in order not to obliterate them. Sandy knelt in the snow and held his lamp close to the single trail. The print was narrow and long and ended in a tapering toe. Ricks's broad foot would have covered half the space again. He jumped to his feet and started for the house, then turned back irresolute. When he entered his little room again the slender footprints had been effaced. He put the lamp on the bureau, and looked vacantly about him. On the cushion was pinned a note. He recognized Ruth's writing, and opened it mechanically. There were only three lines: I must see you again before I leave. Be sure to come to-night. The words scarcely carried a meaning to him. It was her brother that had shot the judge--the brother whom she had defended and protected all her life. It would kill her when she knew. And he, Sandy Kilday, was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name might not matter. But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury. Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now. Everything might be different when he saw her again. All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope. Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it. The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences. Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs. On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body. In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't dead?" he whispered fearfully. Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?" "I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively. She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness. "Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will hang him to-night!" A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate. He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness. He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes. The groan came again, and he followed the sound. At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward. He held his lantern above his head and bent over it. It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth. The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up. As he did so, the light from Sandy's lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson. The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there. "I don't know," said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree. "I'm sick. Get me some whisky." "Wake up!" said Sandy, shaking him roughly. "This is Kilday--Sandy Kilday." Carter's eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. "_Mr._ Kilday," he said, and smiled scornfully. "The least said about _Mr._ Kilday the better." Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nelson, listen! Do you remember going out to the Junction with Annette Fenton?" "That's nobody's business but mine. I'll shoot the--" "Do you remember coming home on the train?" Carter's stupid, heavy eyes were on Sandy now, and he was evidently trying to understand what he was saying. "Home on the train? Yes; I came home on train." "And afterward?" demanded Sandy, kneeling before him and looking intently in his eyes. "Gus Heyser's saloon, and then--" "And then?" repeated Sandy. Carter shook his head and looked about him bewildered. "Where am I now I What did you bring me here for?" "Look me straight, Nelson," said Sandy. "Don't you move your eyes. You left Gus Heyser's and came out the pike to the Hollis farm, didn't you?" "Hollis farm?" Carter repeated vaguely. "No; I didn't go there." "You went up to the window and waited. Don't you remember the snow on the ground and the light inside the window?" Carter seemed struggling to remember, but his usually sensitive face was vacant and perplexed. Sandy moved nearer. "You waited there by the window," he went on with subdued excitement, for the hope was high in his heart that Carter was innocent. "You waited ever so long, until a pistol was fired--" "Yes," broke in Carter, his lips apart; "a pistol-shot close to my head! It woke me up. I ran before they could shoot me again. Where was it--Gus Heyser's? What am I doing here?" For answer Sandy pulled Carter's revolver from his pocket. "Did you have that this afternoon?" "Yes," said Carter, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "Where did you get it, Kilday?" "It was found outside Judge Hollis's window after he had been shot." "Judge Hollis shot! Who did it?" Sandy again looked at the pistol. "My God, man!" cried Carter; "you don't mean that I--" He cowered back against the tree and shook from head to foot. "Kilday!" he cried presently, seizing Sandy by the wrist with his long, delicate hands, "does any one else know?" Sandy shook his head. "Then I must get away; you must help me. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know now what I have done. Is he--" "He's not dead yet." Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood. Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively. A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost. Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them. "Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I--I am the last of the line--last Nelson--" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed. Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way. With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need. The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind. "We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on the insane." They were the judge's own words. Sandy jumped to his feet, and, helping and half supporting Carter, persuaded him to go out to the buggy, promising that he would not give him up. At the Willowvale gate he led the horse into the avenue, then turned and ran at full speed into town. As he came into the square he found only a few groups shivering about the court-house steps, discussing the events of the day. "Where's the crowd?" he cried breathless. "Aren't they going to start from here?" An old negro pulled off his cap and grinned. "Dey been gone purty near an hour, Mist' Sandy. I 'spec' dey's got dat low-down rascal hanged by now." CHAPTER XXII AT WILLOWVALE There was an early tea at Willowvale that evening, and Ruth sat at the big round table alone. Mrs. Nelson always went to bed when the time came for packing, and Carter was late, as usual. Ruth was glad to be alone. She had passed through too much to be able to banish all trace of the storm. But though her eyes were red from recent tears, they were bright with anticipation. Sandy was coming back. That fact seemed to make everything right. She leaned her chin on her palm and tried to still the beating of her heart. She knew he would come. Irresponsible, hot-headed, impulsive as he was, he had never failed her. She glanced impatiently at the clock. "Miss Rufe, was you ever in love?" It was black Rachel who broke in upon her thoughts. She was standing at the foot of the table, her round, good-humored face comically serious. "No-yes. Why, Rachel?" stammered Ruth. "I was just axin'," said Rachel, "'cause if you been in love, you'd know how to read a love-letter, wouldn't you, Miss Rufe?" Ruth smiled and nodded. "I got one from my beau," went on Rachel, in great embarrassment; "but dat nigger knows I can't read." "Where does he live?" asked Ruth. "Up in Injianapolis. He drives de hearse." Ruth suppressed a smile. "I'll read the love-letter for you," she said. Rachel sat down on the floor and began taking down her hair. It was divided into many tight braids, each of which was wrapped with a bit of shoe-string. From under the last one she took a small envelope and handed it to Ruth. "Dat's it," she said. "I was so skeered I'd lose it I didn't trust it no place 'cept in my head." Ruth unfolded the note and read: "DEAR RACHEL: I mean biznis if you mean biznis send me fore dollars to git a devorce. "_George_." Rachel sat on the floor, with her hair standing out wildly and anxiety deepening on her face. "I ain't got but three dollars," she said.

accepted

How many times the word 'accepted' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

get

How many times the word 'get' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

soon

How many times the word 'soon' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

at

How many times the word 'at' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

kiss

How many times the word 'kiss' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

wiping

How many times the word 'wiping' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

group

How many times the word 'group' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

tell

How many times the word 'tell' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

cupboard

How many times the word 'cupboard' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

alternative

How many times the word 'alternative' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

personages

How many times the word 'personages' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

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Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

punished?--and

How many times the word 'punished?--and' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

forms

How many times the word 'forms' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

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How many times the word 'stressed' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

paying

How many times the word 'paying' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

payment

How many times the word 'payment' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

could

How many times the word 'could' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

cook

How many times the word 'cook' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

matters

How many times the word 'matters' appears in the text?

Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you see; I have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below." "You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs; "and we look to you to be liberal." Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm; when he was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing where he was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found himself safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so utterly amazed was he. At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he found Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself adequately and to pay for a room large enough to work in. "My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it." "Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow." Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia. To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance. "Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment. "Well, yes." "That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting." Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room. "And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. "You never ask about him now?" "To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become famous. You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock." "A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones. "Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----" "Nonsense!" said the Baroness. "When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp. "Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--" Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side; the Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who dropped fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief. "Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You were born to be our curse!" "Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied Lisbeth, as she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her alarm, took no notice. "I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring." At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round, and saw Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the maid's absence. "Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of women. And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the forehead, and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was a better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her eyes, saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had quite recovered. "So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas, and affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins' confusion. "But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading Hortense into the garden. Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father and mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never marry, had authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown Agnes, attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the introduction of the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the name of his first purchaser. Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked the old maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied Jesuitically that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not hoped to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person who had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct, had been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be perfectly content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness. "You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if you had only told me the evening before last that you loved my cousin Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many tears. I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your governess; while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth, you will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties that amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed Wenceslas on the forehead. Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears. "I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it." "Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her excitement at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a debt of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with me," she added, leading her away. So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good angel to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by Adeline and Hortense. "We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you earn forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred francs a year. Well, then, how much have you saved?" "Four thousand five hundred francs." "Poor Betty!" said her cousin. She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the thought of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent accumulated during thirty years. Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took it as the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred was strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment when her cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of her childhood. "We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum," said Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the interest for life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six hundred francs a year." Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in, her handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense told her of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the family. So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present; for the Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son, and the wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day a fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot was rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline to speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him. "You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said the Baron sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at Steinbock, who turned pale. "He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist to himself. "Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young man into the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the summer-house. "Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved her mother?" he asked. "More, monsieur," said the sculptor. "Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing of her own." "Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without a trousseau even----" "So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is the daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up in the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and the brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will ere long be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion. "It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem very ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I would marry her----" "That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run away, Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le Comte.--He really loves you, you see!" "Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl. "My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of diction and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were alone, "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of which the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of it. My daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for which you will give a receipt----" "Yes, Monsieur le Baron." "You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me out. I cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from my son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his future promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his two hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters are different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in State funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will be diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to Lisbeth; but she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one; it is a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have a trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her six thousand francs worth of diamonds. "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite bewildered. "As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----" "Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my beloved Hortense----" "Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you will have them--" "Monsieur?" "You will get them from the Government, in payment for commissions which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You are to have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few fine statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The highest personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope to succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at Versailles up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the City of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear fellow, you will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In that way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it." "I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else failed!" cried the artist-nobleman. "That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my wife's fete-day." "It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other." On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet, containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:-- "MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_. "So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money, and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends --but look them up to-morrow. "Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your faithful ally, "STIDMANN. "P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'" Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either Justice or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes. Hence, lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by their frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and the money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out men of merit in the nooks where they hide. It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron Hulot had contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding portion, and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the charming rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial scheme bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love into the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing can demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by vice, to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or voluptuous men can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's pupils. On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty thousand francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under the necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the sum. This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years, had such blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was an emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing his anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor apartment that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the headquarters of his extensive dealings in corn and forage. "Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he. The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was so convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to leave the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the old man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet struck eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and held out his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him out thirty thousand-franc notes. "Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer. "Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money to the bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door. When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the cab containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said, as he led him into the house: "You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you paid me the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was bad enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--" "Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer," said the important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under a vine arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in human flesh scans a substitute for the conscription. "Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old man; his sinews were wiry, and his eye bright. "Does heat disagree with you?" "Quite the contrary." "What do you say to Africa?" "A very nice country!--The French went there with the little Corporal" (Napoleon). "To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to Algiers," said the Baron. "And how about my business?" "An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not enough to live on with his pension, will buy your business." "And what am I to do in Algiers?" "Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I have your commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies in the country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can credit us." "How shall we get them?" "Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The country is little known, though we settled there eight years ago; Algeria produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce belongs to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when it belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a great deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly how much each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the open field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the hay as it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our Spahis, prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price. The Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks at exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring food, and the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That is Algiers from the army contractor's point of view. "It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every incipient government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten years--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has sharp eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you the job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a kingdom where smuggling might be secretly encouraged. "I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand francs within a year." "I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the Alsatian calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----" "The man who wants to buy your business will be here this morning, and pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will be enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?" The old man nodded assent. "As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the remainder of the money due if I find it necessary." "All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer. "Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle saw more clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your character will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at your back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am sure of them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know you well, and I have spoken out without concealment or circumlocution." "It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?" "For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs of your own to live happy on in the Vosges." "I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little old man quietly. "That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go till you have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a Countess." But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office clerk for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty thousand francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which was to cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be spent--on Madame Marneffe. Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he had just produced? This was the history. A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two separate companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the premium, he had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the Chamber, in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving home, in fact, to dine with him:-- "Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you. You must find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the right to draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand francs a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say, 'But you may die'"--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a policy of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I will deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand francs," said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket. "But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire Baron, laughing. The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave. "Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I was not devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of cash? for the Bank will take your signature." "My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have no fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these thankless times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will never reward the men who devote themselves to the service as handsomely as the Emperor did." "Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied Nucingen, "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the Duc d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that leech from sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity your case,'" he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or you will be done for." This dirty business was carried out in the name of one Vauvinet, a small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to screen great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to attend the shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain the patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great man to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at eighty days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never pass them out of his hands. Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the house and the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to a department close to Paris. This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who had hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of the best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay the money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify his passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of this elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before Madame Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A man could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of mind in the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed in shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of his department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the workmen, he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in the Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he nevertheless attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at once, and neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his thoughts were. Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and to see a handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether easy, in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under such creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding, fixed by the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her new apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this ministerial communication:-- "Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the subject are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world: I shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only the time necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at any unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs a year in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs' worth of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I have pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her little money, and pay off your uncle----" "You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and kissing his hands. This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears. "I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went on, disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found in the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor, handsome, splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where you would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite content with a boy." "Yes, my dear." "If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper appearance of course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a year, excepting my private account, which I will provide for." The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's neck in her joy. "How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I love you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!" "We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as you know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week with Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I may succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us; we can dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at home will fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may occasionally be invited to dine elsewhere." "I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline. "Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!" "My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest breath," said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense." This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame Hulot's home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as Hulot had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe. Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of course to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract, behaved as though the scene with which this drama opened had never taken place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron. Celestin Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire majestic dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding. "Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us know how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray, by gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet your children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies buried at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for I should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you." "Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as those you refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will give me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be painful in a family." "Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out into the garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are two admirers of the fair sex to quarrel

passing

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

script

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

nights

How many times the word 'nights' appears in the text?

Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

completion

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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Cooler, The Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS THE COOLER Written by Frank Hannah & Wayne Kramer EXT. STYGIAN DARKNESS - NIGHT STYGIAN DARKNESS The suggestion of traveling through space. Suddenly a star sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another... and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars. No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING TO: EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN... ...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school" Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid... THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash going on, but it's more class than overkill. This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you blacklisted... It gets you dead. Lets us enter. INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT CREDITS SEQUENCE TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK, CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables are on fire. A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT From behind a FIGURE in a suit. All we see is a murky reflection in gold elevator doors. The floor numbers descending rapidly... INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT STICKMEN, CROUPIERS, DEALERS all anticipating the arrival of... INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT The elevator doors open... and we PAN DOWN to the figure's feet. He steps out onto the casino floor... and right away we notice he has a pronounced limp. Following behind the figure. We haven't seen his features yet... (and won't for a while.) TRACKING SERIES -- the figure (seen in soft focus) passes a ROULETTE TABLE, the wheel already in mid-spin. His hand casually brushes the side of the table... and we PAN ACROSS to the wheel -- just in time to see the ball landing on 00. The players HOWL defeat. The croupier rakes in all the losing checks with a slight nod of respect to the passing wraith... -- TRACKING PAST SOME BLACKJACK TABLES... RACKING from the passing figure (still in soft focus) to a DEALER calling out: DEALER Insurance? At the next table, ANOTHER DEALER pulls a six card 21. Off the players' stunned reactions. No way! One of the players instinctively glances behind him... but the figure has moved on. The dealer stifles a grin, her eyes following the figure as he heads toward... -- A HOT CRAPS TABLE. The CROWD APPLAUDS as the shooter lands a hard eight. The dice are fished back to the player. He shakes them up with double ought bravado. We RACK from his hand LARGE in the f.g. to our murky figure passing in the background. The player throws... (we keep tracking with the figure) as the stickman calls it: SEVEN OUT! to a thundering chorus of disappointment. -- Our figure passes by in the foreground, while in the background, we see a growing line of shame at one of the ATM MACHINES. -- Following behind our figure as he turns into a corridor of SLOT MACHINES. CUT TO REVERSE ANGLE from the far end of the corridor. As the murky figure approaches, a player in the f.g. hits a jackpot. Another player in mid-ground is also in the midst of a payout. Suddenly -- with the approach of the figure -- both payouts trickle to a stop. PLAYER IN F.G. (kicks the slot machine) Don't you hold back, baby. Spit it out, darlin'. C'mon... Hey! Hey, this ain't right. S'posed to be eight hundred dollars. Where's the goddamn manager? Who's in charge of these rip-off slots? Yo, ma'am... change lady... CASINO BAR FLOOR - BAR AREA - NIGHT FOLLOWING BEHIND the figure as he turns out of the slot corridor and heads over to the bar. He pours himself a cup of coffee. FIGURE/BERNIE Hey Doris, you got any cream? DORIS THE BARTENDER wanders over with a small container. She starts to pour... Empty. We quickly STEADICAM AROUND to reveal BERNIE LOOTZ's features for the first time. His sad sack eyes register scant surprise at the empty cream container. BERNIE Forget it. He's just about to leave, when an attractive COCKTAIL WAITRESS cruises up. NATALIE BELISARIO -- late 20's-mid-30's. Everything about her sparkles, except her eyes. They're post-mortem. She appears frazzled. Sifts through some coin tips. NATALIE (sotto) Shit. (to Doris) Dewars and a Diet Coke. Please. A sheepish look comes over Bernie. He tries to catch her eye. She doesn't even glance at him. BERNIE Hi, Natalie. She looks at him. Only the faintest hint of recognition. NATALIE Hi. Uh... BERNIE Bernie. NATALIE Yeah, Bernie. (to Doris) Hey, you seen Shelly around? He promised to position me at the tables tonight. I've been on skid row all week. DORIS (chilly) You didn't settle me from last night. NATALIE No? You sure? Fuck... And I was way under. It's been, like, an A.A. convention the whole week. I'll make up for it tonight. Promise. Doris mutters something under her breath -- heard that one before -- and dumps Natalie's drinks on her tray. BERNIE If I see Shelly, I'll let him know. That you're looking for him. Natalie grabs up her tray. Doesn't even look at Bernie. NATALIE Thanks. She takes off. DORIS Bitch. That's the third time this month... (to Bernie) Let me get you that cream. BERNIE (staring after Natalie) Nah, it's okay. DORIS Don't get sweet on that, Bernie. Not unless you're looking to get short- changed. She raises the empty cream container for effect, turns it over. A few drops dribble out. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie limps away from the bar. We hear another spike of sound from the gaming area. As he approaches, a FLOORMAN stops him. FLOORMAN Hey, Bernie, Shelly needs you on eleven. BERNIE (nods) Uh... Let's do the Chivas Regal. Have that... Natalie bring it over. The one working nickel slots next to the Paradise. I spoke to Shelly earlier, he wants her at the tables. The floorman nods, walks off. Bernie makes for the rowdy gaming tables. Takes his time about it. His approach brings an ill-wind to the area. The players appear to sense it. It's in their reactions. A slight hesitation of the dice. Fingers tensing over a pile of chips. A hand tugging at a tie. The Cooler has arrived. As he reaches table eleven, Natalie intercepts him with a short glass of Chivas Regal. NATALIE This is you, right? BERNIE (takes it from her) Thanks. NATALIE Joe said I should stick around. You say something to Shelly? Bernie just smiles at her. NATALIE Wow. That was fast. Hey, thanks. She offers up a smile. It jump-starts those dormant eyes. Her whole face comes alive. Notches her up from an eight to a ten. Bernie immediately glances away. He's afraid what she might read in his gaze. BERNIE Don't mention it. Bernie gestures her over to table eleven. Immediately makes the HIGH ROLLER in question. A good old boy named BULLDOG. He's the one boasting loudly as he shakes the dice with one hand. BULLDOG I'll make you a fortune on five and nine. C'mon forty-five-sixty-three fifty-four! Bernie grabs the drink from Natalie's tray, intentionally bumps Bulldog... BERNIE Hey, buddy, is this your drink? BULLDOG Back off, pal. I'm on a roll here. Another man gladly accepts the drink. Meanwhile, Bulldog sends the dice high up into the air. They drop perfectly on the table. The stickman calls it. STICKMAN Seven out! BULLDOG Mother-fucker! STICKMAN Thank you for those bets, folks. The croupiers hungrily devour the chips from the table. Bernie moves on quietly before anyone notices. But he's been noticed all right. By Natalie. Not quite sure what she's just witnessed. Who is this guy? We hear a VOICE over the intercom. VOICE (V.O.) Conway, party of twelve, please check your reservation at the Paradise Lounge. Bernie reacts immediately to the code words over the speaker. BERNIE (to himself) Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'... CUT TO: INT. CASINO FLOOR CRAPS TABLE - MONTAGE - NIGHT A -- a player makes a hard six at a craps table. The players howl... B -- from the same angle we PAN UP from losing dice to the same guy. Bernie looming large in the background. INT. CASINO FLOOR - BLACKJACK TABLES - NIGHT A -- Bernie taking a seat at another blackjack table. Next to him, a full table of players on a good run of cards. B -- The same table with less players as the dealer appears to be gaining an edge over the players. The only thing filling up are ashtrays. C -- Same again, with one player. This time with Natalie watching in the background. Intrigued. QUICK JUMP CUTS show the player's mountain of chips going down until there is only one. D -- The dealer taps the felt for the man to bet his last chip. After a moment of indecision he flips the chip into the air... BRIDGE CUT TO: INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - OVERLOOKING THE CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT ...the chip becoming an Alka-Seltzer dropping into a glass. The glass is in SHELLY KAPLOW's hand. Director of Casino Operations for the Shangri-la. Late 40's-early 50's. Distinguished, slick, oozing charm. But lose the Cartier, Armani and Paco Raban and you're looking at pure street. He's watching Bernie through the two-way glass. Shakes his head in admiration. Suddenly the office door swings open. THREE MEN stride in. Shelly projects immediate deference to NICKY "FINGERS" BONNATTO. Mid-50's. Former Geovassi family underboss from "back east." The guy's a relic from the days before MBAs became the weapon of choice in the "family" business. He wears his corporate makeover like a bad coat of paint with traces of Mulberry Street primer showing through. Nicky's accompanied by a pair of CORPORATE TYPES in Hugo Boss threads. Shelly glances their way with a look that suggests he's working himself into a full-on sphincter wind- up. Bad news x2. Shelly's muscle, LOU stands off to one side with an apologetic expression. SHELLY Nicky, how the hell are you? I didn't know you were coming in... Nicky reaches out to shake Shelly's hand. Gets nothing back, then remembers. NICKY (shakes his head) Whassimater? You think I don't wash up after goin' to the John? Forget about it. Nicky grabs Shelly, embraces him. SHELLY (uncomfortably) You shoulda called ahead. I woulda sent a car... NICKY Ehh. We thought we'd surprise you. SHELLY Well, anytime, Nicky. Anytime. Shelly sizes up the corporate types. NICKY Shelly, I want you to meet one of our smartest VPs, Larry Sokolov. And his numbers guy, Marty Goldfarb. Shelly sees where this is going. Larry extends his hand... LARRY How do you do, Shelly? ...then catches himself. Quickly pulls it back. Shelly stares him down for a tense beat. SHELLY What can I get you boys to drink? Off their uncomfortable expressions... INT. SHELLY'S OFFICE - A SHORT WHILE LATER - NIGHT Shelly seated across from Nicky, Larry and Marty. SHELLY So... what brings you to town, Nicky? Nicky looks cautiously across the table. NICKY Look, Shelly, this is your joint, you run it the way you see fit. But we got a smart kid here and he's got some good ideas on how to revitalize the Shangri-la. SHELLY Revitalize? What are you talking about? We did thirty-five million last year. Nicky shoots a look over at Larry and Marty. Larry takes this as his cue. LARRY First off, Shelly, I want you to know, I have nothing but respect for you. You've done a fantastic job with the Shangri-la for the last sixteen years. No one would dispute that. NICKY Yeah, no one doubts that, Shelly. Shelly nods carefully. But... LARRY But, the business has changed out here. You just have to take a look at the Strip to see what I'm talking about. SHELLY You mean, that amusement park mook fest out there? You know what that is? That's a fucking violation of something that used to be beautiful. That used to have class. Like a gorgeous high priced hooker with an exclusive clientele. And then that Steve Wynn cocksucker knocks her up and puts her in a family way. Nicky and Larry exchange looks. Marty drops his gaze into his lap. SHELLY Now she's nothing but a cheap, fat whore hiding behind too much makeup. I look at her and see all those ugly stretch marks and I want to cry. 'Cause I remember her as she was. LARRY Yes, well... there's no denying the bottom line. Those eyesores are raking it in. And we can't compete against that. SHELLY What? You think I'm trying to compete with that? You think this joint's about bringing in the stroller crowd? Fresh off some fucking E-ticket ride, looking to break the house on red and black. Fremont's never been about that bullshit. This is where old time and real money comes to play. LARRY The numbers, they don't back you up, Shelly. Nostalgia's grand. We all love nostalgia -- but it belongs in a museum. I think it's time to decide whether you're running a museum or a casino. Shelly is close to losing it. He catches himself, takes a breath. NICKY Hey, forget about it. We'll talk later. Over dinner. MARTY (rubs his hands together) So, how's the action? Larry shoots him a disapproving look. Off Shelly's disturbed expression. He's already calculating serious damage control. INT. CASINO FLOOR - NIGHT Bernie makes his way across the casino floor, when he's intercepted by Shelly. SHELLY Bernie. Mr. Cool. Got a moment? BERNIE I was just heading over to -- SHELLY It can wait. Shelly escorts Bernie over to a nearby bar area. The BARTENDER zips over with some drinks. SHELLY How's the knee? Bernie shrugs. Natalie steps up to the bar a few feet away. Puts in a drink order. She catches Bernie's eye. Nods. Bernie smiles. SHELLY I was speaking to this orthopedic surgeon over at Vegas Memorial. He tells me they can replace a man's entire kneecap with titanium. It's the kinda thing that costs a shitload, but since the man's into us for five hundred large, I'm sure we could -- BERNIE (stealing glances at Natalie) I told you, I'm not gonna be around after Sunday. SHELLY (sighs) Where you gonna go, Bernie? Where the fuck are you gonna go that's better'n here? I got you covered in this town. People, they know you work for me, that's currency in your pocket. That's fuckin' respect when you walk the floor. Where you gonna get that anyplace else? BERNIE (sighs) Seven days, Shelly. Seven days and I'm out from under. A beautiful WOMAN in a low cut dress, sashays her way past them, heading for a high rollers craps table. Shelly reaches out, napkin in hand, grabs her arm. Hands her his card. She snatches it, looks it over. Immediately loses all attitude. Oh shit. SHELLY That's right. I like to know who's shopping it in my neighborhood. You wanna keep working the Shangri-la, you come see me tomorrow morning in my office. We'll go over the rules together. And before you come, you bring me a clean bill of health. OK? The hooker just nods. SHELLY All right, get outta here. She takes off. At the same time Natalie leaves with her drink order. They walk in the same direction. Shelly mistakes Bernie's wandering look for interest in the hooker. SHELLY You want that, Bernie? She's yours. Anytime. I'll keep a tab running for you. (Bernie shakes his head) What's a matter? Not your type? Bernie just stares after Natalie, Shelly finally picking up on it. BERNIE Things are getting hot on fourteen. I gotta go. He limps off. Shelly stares after him. A predator seizing up his prey. Calculating. EXT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - NIGHT Bernie's 1958 Buick Electra pulls into the parking lot of a flea-bag motel. Next door to the motel, we see a convenience store with the name, THE EZ MARK in pink glowing neon. It's actually supposed to read: The EZ MARKET, but the last two letters of "Market" have burned out. INT. LUCKY STAR MOTEL - COURTYARD - NIGHT One of those center pool style motels. A hard luck oasis, if ever there was one. As Bernie limps toward his room, his neighbor, a low rent HOOKER, approaches from the opposite end of the courtyard with a huge-ass JOHN in tow. They converge at their doors at the same time. There's a weariness about the hooker that's endemic to this town. She winks at Bernie. He nods at her. Then casts a furtive glance over at the John. The man flips him off. The hooker mouths, "Sorry." Bernie hastily enters his apartment. INT. BERNIE'S MOTEL ROOM - NIGHT Bernie flips on the light. A dim overhead bulb hardly makes a dent in the gloomy surroundings. Typical drab motel furnishings. We notice a couple of dead plants on the radiator next to the window. A single place setting on the counter. Something odd: an empty cat food bowl on the kitchenette floor. No sign of a cat. Go figure. Bernie heads over to the dresser. A half-filled bottle of gin rests next to a lone glass with a crack down the side. He pours himself a shot. Turns on the TV. A religious channel. Shitty reception. ON SCREEN: an Appalachian Pentecostal service. The members of the congregation taking up snakes and writhing around in religious hysteria, while a number at the bottom of the screen solicits viewer donations. Bernie doesn't even try to change the channel. He takes a seat on his bed, props himself up against a pair of pillows, stretches out. From next door, the sounds of wild humping. HOOKER (O.S.) ...Oh yeah, baby, give it to me. Oh yeah, that's the spot... Do it to me harder, you big stud... Oooooh... Bernie closes his eyes, tries to ignore the X-rated soundtrack coming at him through the carpaccio thin walls. The hooker's moans are starting to get to him. He raises his fist to the wall, then stops himself. He's just not the confrontational type. Instead, he heads over to the TV, cranks the volume up. The hysterical moaning from the snake ritual now blends in with the grunting and groaning from next door, making for a bizarre remix that could only exist in the world of Bernie Lootz. Bernie emits a deep sigh, closes his eyes. INT. CASINO FLOOR - CRAPS TABLES - NIGHT Big action at the craps tables tonight. The players cheer as MR. PINKERTON makes another pass. He exudes USED CAR SALESMAN. Natalie arrives with his drink. NATALIE Seven and Seven? Pinkerton reaches for the drink without taking his eyes off the table. He throws a hard six. The crowd cheers again. He turns around, stuffs a hundred dollar chip down her shirt and slyly cops a feel. PINKERTON Thanks, dollface. Natalie shudders in disgust. She spins around to leave... runs smack into Bernie, spilling her tray of drinks on him. NATALIE Oh shit... Sorry... I'm such a klutz. Bernie wipes himself off, helps her pick up the pieces. BERNIE It's all right. Happens. Natalie tries to wipe him down a bit more. NATALIE Sorry, this guy... fuckin' hands, you know... BERNIE S'okay. You might want to stick around. Bernie wiggles his way next to Pinkerton. He gives the stickman a certain look. STICKMAN Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton. You have no hard eight. PINKERTON (throwing in a chip) Gimmie a hundred dollar hard eight. Bernie just watches as Pinkerton throws the dice. STICKMAN Eight the hard way! The players go nuts. The stickman taps the felt in front of the shooter. STICKMAN Nine hundred dollars to Mr. Pinkerton. PINKERTON Parlay! Parlay! The Boxman seated at the center looks up at him. PINKERTON C'mon. You can take that action. The Boxman feigns concern, then nods in approval. PINKERTON That's what I'm talking about. None of this low limit bullshit. Just as the stickman feeds Pinkerton the dice, Bernie flips a dollar chip over toward the center of the table. Natalie peers between them to catch a glimpse. BERNIE Dollar hard eight. The chip lands on Pinkerton's parlayed bet. He releases the dice from his stubby little fingers. STICKMAN Eight easy! Easy eight! Hard eight comes down. The players cry out in defeat. Pinkerton grumbles to himself. He fingers his rail of chips. PINKERTON Five hundred dollar hard eight. And press my nine up two units. He throws in the chips. The croupier places his bets. The dice are fed back to him. He throws. STICKMAN Easy way eight! Eight easy! Pinkerton is fit to be tied. After a passing moment of clarity he empties his entire rail. PINKERTON Hard eight. The entire table stops down for a second. PLAYER (O.S.) Way to go, Pinkie! Bet the farm. Pinkerton sets his dice carefully and lets them fly. STICKMAN Seven out! Pinkerton slams his fist down on the table. He turns to leave the table to find Natalie smiling at him. PINKERTON What the fuck you smiling at, bitch? Pinkerton starts to lose it. Security moves in, right on time. Natalie shoots Bernie a satisfied look. He averts his eyes shyly and limps away. She stares after him for a moment. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - NIGHT BUDDY STAFFORD, the Paradise Lounge's star attraction, is performing on stage. He's a poor man's Tony Bennett. Mid to late 60's. A staple at the Paradise for the last 20 years. The singer sluggishly descends the stage to the lounge floor, almost tripping over his microphone cable. Buddy works the room, leaning in real close to the ladies, delivering the requisite eye contact. When their companions react with mock outrage, Buddy raises his fists playfully in a boxer's defensive stance. It's classic Buddy Stafford schtick. From somewhere across the lounge, an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN jumps up and throws her panties at Buddy. Buddy catches them and waves them in the air... just as another pair whizzes by... We PAN ACROSS to Shelly seated at his corner booth, in the company of Nicky Fingers, Larry and Marty. TIGHT ON SHELLY as he focuses on Buddy. A smile threatens his patented stoicism. He's flashing back on the old days. While Nicky and Marty are clearly enjoying Buddy's performance, Larry fixates on the singer with joyless eyes. We take on LARRY'S POV of Buddy -- SLOW MOTION CLOSE-UPS of BUDDY SINGING. The MUSIC SLOWED DOWN with the action, emphasizing Buddy's lack of energy. Sweat dripping off Buddy's forehead, splattering into tiny jewels against his microphone. Buddy's tired eyes. Shaking hands around the mic. SMASH CUT to real time APPLAUSE as Buddy reaches the end of the song. Larry is the only one not clapping. RACK ACROSS to Shelly as he picks up on this. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly approaches Buddy's dressing room. He enters without knocking... INT. BUDDY STAFFORD'S DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT ...to find a trembling Buddy hunched over on a sofa, hugging himself. Buddy immediately sits up... BUDDY Shelly. I was a goddamn embarrassment tonight. I shouldn'a let you talk me into going on. (massages his throat) It's definitely strep. SHELLY You were velvet out there, pops. Silk. Shelly throws a pair of red silk panties to Buddy. We see a room number scribbled on the crotch area. SHELLY They were hanging on the door outside. Forget your tonsils. When the muff confetti stops coming, that's when you got yourself a problem. BUDDY (dangling the panties on his finger) You get a receipt? SHELLY Excuse me? BUDDY Charmayne's in the lobby. They got these on sale in the window. Victoria Secret's Valentine's Collection. And the broad waiting in the room, what she set you back? Always Grade-A for Ol' Buddy. SHELLY Are you kidding me? Gimme that. (snatches the panties away from Buddy) You don't fucking deserve this. All those ladies going home with a sweet breeze between their legs because you still do it for them and you're fingering me for some kinda Buddy Stafford ego pimp. Hey, fuck you, old man. Shelly feigns as if he's leaving. BUDDY (affectionately) Get back here, you prick. Hand it over. Shelly throws the panties back at Buddy. Buddy just stares at him with pained eyes, waiting for something else. Sweat mirror balls his wrinkled forehead. Shelly nods. Removes a foil package from his pocket. Hands it to Buddy. The singer rushes over to his dressing table. Unwraps his works. Rubber tubes his forearm. Trembling hands juggle lighter and hypodermic. Shelly takes a seat on the sofa. Buddy, euphoric as the dope hits the spot. Tears in his eyes. He picks up on Shelly's somber expression in the mirror. BUDDY Whassimatter, kid? You got that Nostradamus look. Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY You ever watch those nature shows on TV? Shelly shakes his head. BUDDY I've seen this one a dozen times. It's about lions. Cycle of life thing. The leader of the pack... SHELLY Pride. It's called a pride. BUDDY Yeah, pride. The leader of the pride... when he gets on in years. It's just a matter of time before some young male arrives on the scene to challenge him. They go at it and the old cat gets the crap beaten outta him. It's humiliating. In front of all the females, this goes down. And after he's defeated, he's cast out of the pride, to scavenge and die alone in the bush. SHELLY Yeah, nature's got a real sick sense of humor. BUDDY No shit. It's fucking tragic because the old lion can't figure it out on his own. That he's past it. It'd be so much easier for him to just walk away and save himself all that pain and humiliation. SHELLY That's like admitting to yourself that you're already dead. I prefer nature's way. BUDDY (a beat) Yeah. Me, too. Shelly holds Buddy's gaze in the mirror. INT. PARADISE LOUNGE - BACK STAGE - NIGHT Shelly exits the dressing room, to find Larry waiting on him. He's accompanied by a good looking YOUNG MAN. LARRY Shelly, got a minute... Shelly's expression: no. But he heads over anyway. LARRY Shelly, this is Johnny Capella. JOHNNY How ya doin', Shelly? Johnny extends his hand. Shelly ignores the gesture. SHELLY I know you from somewhere, right? LARRY Johnny's been opening for Danny Ganz at the Mirage. Sony's talking about signing him to a three album deal. They're positioning him as the new Ricki Martin. SHELLY And I should be interested in this, why? LARRY Johnny's looking to headline. I told him we might be interested. SHELLY (icy) We? JOHNNY Hey, if this is a bad time... SHELLY Even if I were interested, Buddy's got ink with us through 2003. I just renegotiated his contract last year. JOHNNY Sounds like the two of you need to get on the same page. (to Larry) If I don't hear from you by Thursday, I'm taking the Stardust's offer. Johnny nods at Shelly, takes off. Shelly and Larry eyeball each other for a long, cold beat. Shelly's about to say something, when Nicky and Marty approach. Larry shrugs, flashes a chilling smile. NICKY Where's Buddy? I wanna buy the old fart a drink. SHELLY Buddy asked me to send you his regards, Nicky. He's not feeling so great. I think he's got that stomach flu that's going around. NICKY Oh yeah? That's too bad. (Shelly isn't fooling him) Well, another time then. MARTY Hey, Shelly, Nicky says you might be able to hook us up with some showgirls. Something with class. Shelly eyeballs Marty for a tense, extended beat. What do I look like, some fuckin' pimp, college boy? Just as Marty's starting to get real uncomfortable, Shelly cracks a smile. SHELLY Sure, no problem. You got any preferences? NICKY (jumps in) Yeah. Something with big headlights, nice rims and low mileage. MARTY You got any Asian babes? Shelly looks to Larry. LARRY I think I'll just stick with the tables. We linger on Shelly's unsettled look. This guy is bad news. EXT. SHANGRI-LA PARKING LOT - NIGHT Bernie weaves his way through the lot to his car. Arriving at his Buick, he's startled to find Natalie leaning against it. She holds up the $100 chip the drunk tipped

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DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

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DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

looming

How many times the word 'looming' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

sail

How many times the word 'sail' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

dragging

How many times the word 'dragging' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

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DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

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DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

ladles

How many times the word 'ladles' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

blazed

How many times the word 'blazed' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

against

How many times the word 'against' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

burden

How many times the word 'burden' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

conscience

How many times the word 'conscience' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

invitation

How many times the word 'invitation' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

rock

How many times the word 'rock' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

foam

How many times the word 'foam' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

waist

How many times the word 'waist' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

jack

How many times the word 'jack' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

fantastic

How many times the word 'fantastic' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

french

How many times the word 'french' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

gratefully

How many times the word 'gratefully' appears in the text?

DOUDLE We'll be cracking off presently if he doesn't watch it. SLADE No, he knows this ship. He knows what she can take. He touches wood, just the same and looks at Joe Plaice who gives a meaningful roll of his eyes. Ahead, the bank of storm clouds loom gunmetal grey. 148. GREAT CABIN - DAY PULLINGS knocks and enters, with an anxious looking MR. LAMB, with whom he has been arguing a point. PULLINGS We can just see her topsails. She's made her turn westwards. LAMB I can't vouch for the mizzen Sir, not round Cape Horn. JACK I'll not lose her now. Set a course westwards. Both men accept this and leave. 149. QUARTERDECK (TIMELAPSE) - DAY The wind has increased considerably, the deck sloping like the roof of a house, the masts bending like coach-whips. PULLINGS and LAMB are looking up at the mizzenmast which is making ominous creaks and groans. JACK Mr Hollar, rig preventer backstays. Warps and light hawsers to the mastheads. JACK stares ahead to the darkening sky as they move across a switchback landscape of massive rolling waves. JACK (CONT'D) Better get below, Mr. Pullings! PULLINGS What, Sir? JACK (GRINNING) Better get some food in you. Before it turns nasty. 150. OCEAN - DAY Wide to see the two ships. The Surprise and the Acheron with a mile of sea between them. It's like some great ocean race, with neither prepared to take in canvas despite the appalling conditions. 151. QUARTERDECK - LATER, DAY They are running fast before a dangerous, following sea: a landscape of hills and valleys, the whole thing in terrifying motion. The forecastle now vanishes in foam with every plunge, rising each time with water pouring over the waist and spouting from her scuppers. KILLICK comes up with the coffee pot inside his jacket. JACK drinks from the spout, peering ahead into the murk. A wild unruly part of him is loving this. Above him, more top-men struggle up the rigging, with the mast drawing crazy figure of eights on a rushing sky. 152. BELOW DECKS The dog watch are wolfing their food, mugs and dinner plates sliding over the table. Crewmen walk up hill to the grog barrel, down their ration and head up top again. HIGGINS You reckon Captain will keep chasing him 'round the Horn with every stitch of canvas flying? DAVIES I reckon he'd chase him to the gates of hell if he has to. PLAICE And that's where we're all going if he doesn't take in sail. Since his injury, Joe Plaice's startlingly random pronouncements have acquired the quality of an oracle. 153. ON DECK The wind rising from yell to shriek. Waves blown flat by it, the ship travelling at a drunken sideways angle across a raging expanse of white foam. Four men on the wheel, lashed to it, with the air around them full of water. In the distance a tower of black rock on the rim of the sea, distant rollers breaking against it and surging up to a preposterous height. JACK looks up at the great press of canvas as he paces the quarterdeck, the officers glancing from the sails back to JACK. JACK Strike the topgallants. Men gratefully rush to the ratlines and begin climbing to the masts. STEPHEN staggers up onto deck. JACK calls to him, pointing at the black rock. JACK (CONT'D) Cape Horn, Doctor! STEPHEN stares across at the legendary Cape. He's struggling with his pocket-glass when a lurch of the ship sends him tumbling. As men help him below, WARLEY, the maintop captain reports to the bosun. HOLLAR (to WARLEY) Help them with that mizzen topgallant! You go too, Mr. Hollom! HOLLOM looks desperate as he follows WARLEY up the ratlines of the mizzen. 154. MIZZEN TOPgallant MAST WARLEY works frantically. He's out on the yardarm high above the raging sea. He shouts for HOLLOM to join him, but HOLLOM is still in the top, some twenty feet below, unable or unwilling to climb any higher. 155. THE SURPRISE - DAY Wide to see the ship. WARLEY working on the swaying mizzen. The bow swinging a couple of points further south. 156. QUARTERDECK - DAY Wood and rope straining as they wrestle to turn. Then a tremendous crack as the mizzen-topmast splits and flies backward into the sea, carrying WARLEY along with it. BONDEN Man overboard! Sail and cordage falling over the men at the wheel. A loose block and tackle swinging murderously in the gale. JACK fights free from the tangle of ropes as WARLEY vanishes in the foam. The mizzenmast is acting as a sea-anchor dragging the ship's head northwards toward the black rocks. JACK grabs a speaking-trumpet as WARLEY briefly reappears. JACK Swim for the wreckage, man! Then to PULLINGS. JACK (CONT'D) Reduce sail! As crewmen scramble frantically into the rigging, JACK turns back to see WARLEY desperately swimming toward the trailing wreckage, his mates shouting encouragement over the howling wind. With sails reduced the ship perceptibly slows, but the dragging wreckage is swinging the ship broadside on to the waves. BONDEN She's broaching! PULLINGS runs to JACK, pointing to the trailing mass of ropes and mast. PULLINGS It's acting as a sea-anchor! We must cut it loose, Sir! WARLEY still struggling to reach the wreckage but going under with each wave. JACK, agonized, makes his decision. JACK Axes! AWKWARD DAVIES scrambles up the ladder with an axe, but loses his footing and falls sprawling over the quarterdeck. JACK grabs the axe and attacks the ropes. He's joined by NAGEL who has run to assist before realizing that the man overboard is his friend Warley. JACK (CONT'D) Set to then. Set to!! NAGEL's face is a mask of horror, but he obeys Jacks orders and starts chopping. He and Jack work shoulder to shoulder, matching blow for blow [ ] The prow keeps turning, wave after wave coming at right angles to the ship. 157. ON THE GUN-DECK - DAY A hatch cover is torn off by the force of water, a sudden mighty deluge pouring down into the lower levels drenching the men and swamping the guns. HOLLAR (yells below) All hands to the pumps! 158. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK and NAGEL [ ] keep hacking at the tangle of ropes. Knocking chips off the railing in their urgency to cut free the dragging mast. Finally they succeed. The last of the ropes [ ] whips away, the broken mizzen disappears aft and the ship swings southward, away from the rocks. The wreckage is swept away by the next wave, leaving WARLEY struggling, his last chance of getting back to the ship gone. Then another wave breaks over him and he is gone. NAGEL is bereft. JACK lowers his head. 159. OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILL. KILLICK He's been at it again. BLACK BILL Who's that then? KILLICK The Jonah. BLACK BILL What Jonah? 160. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT JACK sits at his desk. The model of the Acheron that WARLEY helped make sits accusingly in front of him. STEPHEN pours him a glass on wine, and one for himself. STEPHEN The deaths in actual battle are the easiest. (beat) For my own part - those who die under the knife or from some consequent infection: I have to remind myself that it is the enemy who killed them, and not me. (beat) Warley was a casualty of war, as surely as if a French ball had taken him. JACK nods. Obviously the death still weighs on his conscience. [ ] STEPHEN (CONT'D) (offering the wine) At the same time.... He breaks off Jack At the same time, what? Stephen hesitates, aware that he has to proceed carefully STEPHEN You know that I wear two hats on every voyage. I am the captains particular friend and supporter, but also I am the ships doctor in which later capacity I am party to.... He catches a steely glint in Jacks eye and breaks off. STEPHEN (CONT'D) You don't want me to continue. JACK (stiffly) On the contrary. I insist on it. STEPHEN There is talk below decks of turning back. Or rather that we should have turned back some weeks ago. Of course the men would follow "Lucky Jack" anywhere, and usually in the confident expectation of victory. But that of course is the problem. JACK What is the problem? STEPHEN That you are not accustomed to defeat Jack. That you have taken it too personally. That chasing this larger, faster ship, with its long guns, is beginning to smack of pride 'which goeth before destruction'? JACK It's not pride nor anything like it, it's a question of duty. STEPHEN 'Duty', ah yes. The naval signal for end of discussion. JACK You can be as 'satiric' as you like, Stephen, but I have my orders. She is attacking our whalers. For why? Without whales we have no boot polish, nor any soap, nor oil for our lamps, not to oil our sabres and muskets. Destroying our whalers could win the war for Napoleon. Which is why we must catch this Acheron. As a man of learning surely you can see that. STEPHEN At whatever the cost? JACK Any whatever cost I choose to pay. And I will calculate that myself, Stephen without reference to your friends in the ward room. 160A MIZZEN-TOP An icy wind whips at the men working on the temporary mizzen mast. Hollom, half way up the rigging is relaying instructions between the men in the rigging and the men on deck HOLLOM Cast off. The new yard flails around on its pulley, bashing dangerously against the mast. Almost claiming Nagel HOLLOM (CONT'D) Belay. Sorry. Sorry. 161 QUARTERDECK PULLING craning upwards. The topmen's shouted commands are whipped away by the gale. JACK joins him, still smarting from the conversation with Stephen JACK We'll have to go further south, get around this bloody west wind. PULLINGS How far south? JACK As far as is necessary, Mr. Pullings. The sixtieth parallel if need be. 162. THE SHIP - DAY Tacking southwards. The sun, a pale anaemic disc, gradually disappearing behind layers of cloud. The wind is a constant shrill whistle through the rigging, a sound like some infernal drill which rises and falls but never ceases. DISSOLVE TO - 163. QUARTERDECK - DAWN The sun rising in a clear sky which turns a sapphire blue. White ice-islands lie all around them, some a pure, rosy pink. Others bright ultramarine. And still the wind howls, driving them further south. MOWETT passes his telescope to STEPHEN MATURIN. As STEPHEN studies some seals on an ice-beach, MOWETT launches into verse, shouting against the wind - MOWETT Then we upon the globes last verge shall go to view the ocean leaning on the sky from thence our rolling neighbours we shall know and on the hidden world securely pry! He is interrupted by a bundle of guns clattering on board from one of the small boats. They are followed by Mr Howard clad in several thicknesses of sealskin and carrying a brace of dead penguin. 164. THE SHIP AT NIGHT The ship scudding onwards, soundless at this distance, but for the chilling high pitched whistle of the wind. An iceberg passes in foreground, fantastic shapes of ice, like a Gothic cathedral, sculpted by the elements. 165. BERTH DECK - NIGHT Hanging stoves provide some feeble warmth. Men huddle close to them, their breath condensing, or lie shivering in their bunks, unable to sleep for the cold. HOLLAR appears with a lantern. HOLLAR Rise and shine! Show a leg there, tumble up, tumble up - sleepers awake! As the previous watch arrive downstairs, numb and dazed from the cold, the next watch emerge from their hammocks and dress. No-one speaks. 166. THE GREAT CABIN - DAY The officers take their places at dinner. Once again it's penguin stew. PULLINGS comes in, with an unexpected smile on his face and whispers something to JACK. JACK Praise be. At last. The others seem to know what's going on, all except STEPHEN who looks baffled. STEPHEN Pray what is there to celebrate? JACK holds up his hand for silence. A series of creaks and groans from the ship. The coffee pot tilts on its gimbals. JACK We have made our turn northward, Doctor. We are headed back toward the sun... The officers give a slightly ragged cheer. JACK (CONT'D) ...in anticipation of which. I asked Killick to prepare something special. (shouts off) Killick. Killick there. KILLICK comes in with his usual exasperated expression, bearing a tray with a silver tureen lid on it. KILLICK Which I was just coming. He lays it on the table. JACK Gentlemen, I give you... our destination. He whips off the lid to reveal a strange glutinous mass, a pudding cut in the oddest of shapes. Everyone stands to get a better look. STEPHEN The Galapagos Islands. PULLINGS 'Pon my word so it is. Look: here's Narborough, Chatham and Hood... JACK That's where the whalers are, ain't it Mr Allen. So that's where the Acheron will be headed. The mood is now taken over by the glee of recognition, as the officers marvel over the pudding. JACK (CONT'D) Mr. Pullings, if you'll permit me, a slice of Albermale. For you Doctor, Redondo Rock. There's a tiny man-of-war made of icing, between the islands. JACK picks it up in his spoon. JACK (CONT'D) And, with a fair wind behind us the Acheron for me. 167. OPEN OCEAN, DOLDRUMS - DAY Slow pan over a glassy expanse of water. JACK's head suddenly breaks the surface, close to camera. As he swims he brings the Surprise into view. The ship is utterly becalmed, wallowing in the swell, her sails hanging limp. A 'painted ship upon a painted ocean'. JACK swims around the ship, which currently presents a less than warlike picture with washing hanging from every part of the rigging. He calls up to PULLINGS - JACK Best bowers chipped... Lot of rust on these forechains... black strake needs another coat. 168. QUARTERDECK JACK comes aboard, takes a towel from KILLICK and looks about him. The men are holystoning the deck and polishing the brightwork. They look thin and exhausted and burnt dark-brown by the sun and wind. 169. FORECASTLE Killick is with NAGEL and others tarring the ratlines as he looks back at HOLLOM, patrolling the gangway. KILLICK indicates him with a tilt of the head. KILLICK That engagement off Recife: his whole gun crew killed and him not a mark on him. Soon as he went up the mizzen mast Warley falls. And whose watch was it when we lost our wind? HOLLOM sees them looking at him. 170. THE SCUTTLEBUTT, SHIP'S WAIST - DAY A marine sentry, TROLLOPE, stands guard by the ship's water- barrel - the level is very low. STEPHEN ladles some water into a phial. TROLLOPE One glass per man, sir, Captain's orders. STEPHEN straightening, irritated by the challenge. STEPHEN A mere thimbleful, Corporal, for scientific purposes only. 171. STEPHEN'S CABIN - DAY In the gloom of his cabin, STEPHEN angles the mirror of his brass microscope toward the window, and places a slide containing a droplet of water under the lens. 172. MAINMAST-TOP - DAY JACK climbs into the top. He adjusts his telescope, studies the horizon. 173. JACK'S TELESCOPE P.O.V. He pans across the empty sea. 174. STEPHEN'S MICROSCOPE P.O.V. An assortment of mobile, transparent micro-organisms rotating wildly. STEPHEN (O.S.) My God, Padeen, a veritable zoo. PADEEN takes a look, amazed then greatly amused. 175. THE GREAT CABIN - NIGHT Charts are spread all over the table, STEPHEN poring over them when Jack comes in [ ] STEPHEN Show me where these Doldrums lie? JACK joins him. JACK Stephen. Will we never make a sailor of you? The doldrums is a condition, not a region. But you tend to strike 'em here... (pointing) ...between the trades, and the sou'easterlies. I hope the Acheron is having it as bad as we are. STEPHEN considers their current position on the chart, the tiny Galapagos Islands to the north and the vast emptiness to the west of them. STEPHEN Assuming he is heading for the Galapagos, and not some other point in all this vastness? JACK Come. I'd have thought you'd be delighted to go there. It is said to be a natural paradise STEPHEN In truth I'd be delighted with the merest guano stained rock provided it didn't sway beneath my feet JACK Well, we'll take on food and water once we're there, and as compensation for not having put ashore in Brazil I pledge that during that time, several days at least, you can wander at will, catching bugs and beetles to your heart's delight. You will be the first naturalist to set foot on the islands. That is my solemn promise STEPHEN I accept, provided the men have not mutinied and thrown us all overboard before we get there. JACK Mutiny? No. They are already counting their share of the prize money. STEPHEN Another week of this and they shall gladly give it up for a glass of clean water. JACK Ach, Stephen. Stephen. Pray stop your bellyacheing. We shall have rain presently, and if not we shall damned well tow ourselves out of this. 176. JOLLY BOAT - DAY Disgruntled, under-slept men, in boats towing the ship. NAGEL and DAVIES look back darkly at HOLLOM who sits in the stern. HOLLOM Stroke. Stroke... DAVIES (whispers) I heard he were on the Fair Marion as foundered off Tresco. And he were on the Zephyrus what exploded at Trafalgar. HOLLOM has heard this, as DAVIES intended, but he looks away choosing to ignore them. 177. FIGHTING TOP - DAY A view from above of men towing the ship. Over this an unpleasant scraping sound - chalk on slate. BONDEN M-a-s-t... mast STEPHEN is writing words on a slate then offering them to BONDEN whom he is teaching to read. BONDEN (CONT'D) S-u-n... sun STEPHEN nods and scratches another word on the board. As BONDEN struggles to decipher it there's the sound of a musket shot and a seabird falls out of the sky. HOWARD, the captain of marines, reloads his smoking musket laughing aloud. STEPHEN Is that man completely mad? (shouts down) Mr. Howard, a petrel is not good eating! HOWARD looks up towards them, a broad smile on his red moon of a face. HOWARD Were you never a man for sporting, Doctor? Why you could shoot all day in these waters with two men loading! 178. GUN-DECK - DAY The midshipmen and powder-monkeys have assembled for weapons practise, armed with cutlasses. CALAMY and WILLIAMSON divide the group into two teams, choosing sides as for school-yard football. CALAMY Blakeney... WILLIAMSON Rye... CALAMY Swift... WILLIAMSON Boyle... CALAMY (the final choice) All right, come on Addison. Little ADDISON joins CALAMY's side, trailing his too-large sword. WILLIAMSON tosses a coin. CALAMY (CONT'D) Heads. WILLIAMSON It's tails. We attack. CALAMY's side retire to a defensive position made of tar barrels at one end of the deck. From here they are suddenly aware of Jack idly watching their mock-fight from the quarter-deck WILLIAMSON's team give a yell and charge at them. It's serious fighting. Heads are struck, fingers are rapped. BLAKENEY, trying gamely with his left arm but frustrated by his own ineptitude, goes down under the rush of attackers. BLAKENEY Ow ow ow! WILLIAMSON Yield. CALAMY Let go of him. WILLIAMSON Yield!! CALAMY can't drag the bigger boy off. He whips a pistol out of his belt and fires it at WILLIAMSON's head. WILLIAMSON is blasted sideways, clutching his face and yelling in pain. The other boys separate, horrified. CALAMY It's just powder. There wasn't a ball in it, just powder. He helps BLAKENEY to his feet. CALAMY (CONT'D) Are you all right? BLAKENEY No. Angrily shaking free of him, he looks to where Jack stood, but the captain is no longer watching. CALAMY What's wrong? I saved you. BLAKENEY I didn't need to be saved. 179. ON DECK - DAY Tar bubbling under the heat of the sun. Cannons fizzing and steaming as they are washed. There's been a change of crews in the long-boats, and HOLLOM and his men are now back on board. NAGEL is approaching from one end of the narrow gang-way, HOLLOM from the other. NAGEL pushes past, deliberately bumping HOLLOM, who stumbles, clutching for the gunwale. 180. QUARTERDECK - DAY JACK sees this outrageous act of indiscipline and yells out - JACK Master at arms! Take that man below and clap him in irons. Mr. Pullings, defaulters at six bells. 181. THE GREAT CABIN, DOLDRUMS - DAY JACK stands behind his desk, brow like thunder. From outside the sounds of the muster. HOLLOM stands in front of him, twisting his hat between his hands. JACK The man pushed past you without making his obedience. And yet you said nothing. HOLLOM No, Sir, I intended to but the right words just didn't... JACK 'The right words'? He failed to salute you. It's deliberate insubordination. HOLLOM looks at the floor, mumbles - HOLLOM They don't like me, Sir. JACK They what? Speak up, man! HOLLOM raises his head and looks at JACK, his eyes shiny with tears and when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. HOLLOM I've tried to get to know the men a bit, Sir, be friendly like, but they've taken a set against me. Always whispering when I go past, giving me looks. But, I'll set that to rights, be tougher on them from now on. JACK You can't make 'friends' with the foremast jacks, they'll despise you in the end. Nor do you need be a tyrant. It's leadership they want, strength, respect. HOLLOM I'm very sorry, Sir. JACK You're what twenty-three, twenty-four? HOLLOM (smiling weakly) Twenty-five next Friday. JACK You've failed to pass for lieutenant twice. You can't spend the rest of your life as a midshipman. HOLLOM I'll try harder, Sir. KILLICK helps JACK on with his full-dress uniform. JACK Well, it's an unfortunate business, Hollom. Damned unfortunate. KILLICK seems to endorse this by placing the captain's hat emphatically on JACK's head. Jack turns and strides out of the cabin, HOLLOM following slowly after him. 182. QUARTERDECK, DOLDRUMS - DAY The entire crew has been mustered. The uniformed officers line the quarterdeck as JACK reads from the Articles of War. JACK 'Article Thirty-Six. All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet... shall be punished according to the laws, and customs, of the sea.' (then, to NAGEL) Mr. Nagel, you're an old man-of-war's man and yet you failed to salute an officer. You knew what you were doing. Have you anything to say in your defence? NAGEL looks at the deck. NAGEL No, Sir. JACK Have his officers anything to say for him? DAVIES and KILLICK scowl across the deck at HOLLOM, who looks wretched but says nothing. JACK (CONT'D) Seize him up. NAGEL is spread-eagled to the grating, his hands tied. HOLLAR Seized up, Sir. JACK One dozen. Bosun's mate, do your duty. The mate takes the leather cat-o-nine tails out of its red bag. FADE TO BLACK FADE UP ON - 183. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK stands alone, tuning his fiddle. No matter how much he turns the peg the top string always sounds flat. He tunes some more and breaks it. JACK Red hell... 184. QUARTERDECK - DUSK JACK (O.S.) ...and bloody death! Every word is plainly audible to the men on watch, who pretend to hear nothing. 185. THE GREAT CABIN - DUSK JACK is fitting a new string. Widen to reveal STEPHEN sitting opposite with his cello. STEPHEN I was merely remarking that you have always prided yourself on not being a flogging captain and this... JACK I am not a "flogging captain". I have not once rigged the grating on this voyage, not once in twelve thousand miles. Besides, I wager you will find a deal more brutality on land. Tightening the new string. The note escalating as he turns. STEPHEN I'm not a party to it on land. JACK Well you are party to it on my ship. Men must be governed. Often not wisely I grant you, but there are hierarchies even in nature, as you've often said yourself. STEPHEN Hierarchies. That is the excuse of every tyrant in history. Of Nero. Of Boneparte. JACK (trying to call a halt) Yes. Fine words I'm sure STEPHEN (continues regardless) ...We are not animals and I for one am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression.. JACK Very fine words Stephen, but In these current circumstances, hard-work and firm discipline is what keeps our little wooden world together. STEPHEN And grog I suppose. JACK Of course. What of it? Of course they have their grog! STEPHEN (sits) (CONT'D) You know Nagel was drunk when he insulted Hollom. And Higgins is never sober. Even the midshipmen... JACK The men will have their grog Stephen. It is part of the immemorial tradition of the service STEPHEN Well a shameful tradition it is too. To have them pressed from their homes, kept in a permanent state of dull inebriation. JACK Stephen... STEPHEN ...confined for months in a wooden prison, Never more than a few hours sleep and flogged when drunken idleness drives them to.... JACK (forcefully) ...Stephen! I warn you that friend or no I will not have you talk of the service like that. STEPHEN I am stating plain facts JACK (finally explodes) Well I will not hear them! From you or anyone. You understand! Things are as they are for good or bad whether or not they have a place in your damned papist philosophy. If you are here to make music then sit down and play. If not be gone, for you have come to the wrong shop for anarchy! In stony silence Stephen puts down his cello bow and leaves past Killick, who is lurking as always by the door. 186. SCUTTLEBUTT - DUSK Something disturbs the dark surface of the water as HOLLOM dips the ladle and fills his cup. A sense of someone moving up behind him. HOLLOM turns abruptly. It's the marine sentry, moving in the shadows. He stares at HOLLOM as he backs away toward the ladder and hurries below. 187. BERTH DECK - DUSK To reach his quarters he is obliged to walk the length of the berth deck, past HOWARD obsessively cleaning his pistol, another man whittling with a knife, DAVIES adding another link in the tattooed chain about BECKETT's middle. No-one speaks as HOLLOM runs the gauntlet of their stares, acutely aware of his own breathing. It now seems universally to be held that he is the author of all the ship's misfortune. Nagle pointedly turns his back, the scars from the flogging gleaming wetly in the lamplight Hollom's breath quickens. He stumbles on someone's dunnage, almost trips but is caught before he falls. It's one of NAGEL's mates. NAGEL's MATE Careful, sir. 188. MIDSHIPMAN'S BERTH - DUSK HOLLOM comes in, wild-eyed and goes to his berth, breathing hard. CALAMY, BLAKENEY & BOYLE look up from a tense game of cards. BLAKENEY Are you all right, Hollom? HOLLOM shakes his head miserably, hyperventilating. CALAMY He's not sick. He's useless. He's just dodging work. BLAKENEY (angrily) Oh shut up Calamay. What do you know about anything? CALAMY glares at BLAKENEY. 189. INT STEPHEN'S ROOM - DUSK A shot from the deck above. STEPHEN looks up from his book "Di Consolazione Philosophae". Then the sound of bare feet approaching, followed by a knock at the door. Its Joe Plaice, looking agitated. PLAICE Beg your pardon, your honour, but Mr. Howard just shot a sea-monster! 190. GANGWAY - DUSK STEPHEN and PLAICE stride along to where the marine captain, HOWARD, peers down into the water with one of his men. HOWARD Doctor! The very man. STEPHEN moves to the rail, looks out. HOWARD (CONT'D) [ ] I wished you'd seen it for yourself, Doctor. The crew never seen anything like it. On the glassy sea, a smudge of blood and some ripples HOWARD (CONT'D) It was prodigious like a human, though bigger, might have been a sea-elephant, it had a calf with it - I didn't mean to hit the calf, I missed my mark. STEPHEN Mr. Howard, let me beg you, if the men can't eat it or I can't dissect it, please do not shoot every creature you see. STEPHEN stares back down at the ripples spreading over the glassy sea. 191. THE SURPRISE - NIGHT Wide, on the troubled ship, small yellow patches of light visible from the gun-ports. 192. BELOW DECKS - NIGHT The men are lying in their hammocks when, from somewhere outside, there comes an ungodly howling. It stops, then comes again, exactly human in its pitch. The crew look at one another. This is like no sound they've ever heard. The howling stops then comes again, from another direction. 193. THE GREAT CABIN, EXTERIOR - NIGHT KILLICK and BLACK BILLY listening. KILLICK What did I tell you? The ship's accursed. 194. QUARTERDECK - NIGHT JACK comes up from below. JACK What is that abominable noise, for God's sake? PULLINGS I have no idea, Sir. MOWETT You don't think it's the Acheron, Sir? JACK (untypically cutting) The enemy cannot come on us without a wind, Mr. Mowett. He looks about at the terrified faces of the crew. The wailing sound now rises to a shriek, as STEPHEN joins the group. JACK (CONT'D) What do you make of it, Doctor? STEPHEN I'm sure I've never heard the like. The crew overhear this and pass it among themselves as another anguished howl fills the night. STEPHEN (CONT'D) Perhaps it's the mother of the creature Mr. Howard shot. JACK [ ] Creature? STEPHEN [ ] A manatee. A sea-elephant

treason

How many times the word 'treason' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

wishes

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Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

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Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

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Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

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Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

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Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

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Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

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How many times the word 'consoles' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

shaken

How many times the word 'shaken' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

apostrophized

How many times the word 'apostrophized' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

triple

How many times the word 'triple' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

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How many times the word 'fact' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

incredulous

How many times the word 'incredulous' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

score

How many times the word 'score' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

rushes

How many times the word 'rushes' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

trip

How many times the word 'trip' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

money

How many times the word 'money' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

dirt

How many times the word 'dirt' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

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How many times the word 'lost' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

does

How many times the word 'does' appears in the text?

Dawn of the Dead Script at IMSDb. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb) The web's largest movie script resource! Search IMSDb Alphabetical # A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Genre Action Adventure Animation Comedy Crime Drama Family Fantasy Film-Noir Horror Musical Mystery Romance Sci-Fi Short Thriller War Western Sponsor TV Transcripts Futurama Seinfeld South Park Stargate SG-1 Lost The 4400 International French scripts Movie Software Rip from DVD Rip Blu-Ray Latest Comments Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith10/10 Star Wars: The Force Awakens10/10 Batman Begins9/10 Collateral10/10 Jackie Brown8/10 Movie Chat Message Yell ! ALL SCRIPTS DAWN OF THE DEAD (The working draft 1977) by George A. Romero 1 We see the face of a young woman. She is asleep. It is very quiet at first, as credits appear. The woman's face begins to twitch, as though she is having a bad dream. She moans slightly and her expression grows more desperate. A mix of subtle sounds begin to fade in. As they get louder, we can discern what sounds like a busy office area. It is actually a frantic television studio with the hum of panic in a national emergency. The woman's moans get louder and more desperate as the background sounds reach full volume and the credits stop. The woman sits up, snapping awake. 2 She lurches forwards into the arms of a strong young man. She is Francine, twenty three years old and very attractive, although she is gritty with dirt. Her hair is hanging, dishevelled and sweaty. Her jeans and blouse have been worn for several days. She is sitting on the floor, where she has slept the last several hours, covered by an old overcoat. Tony: YOU OK? Fran stares at the young man. She is shaking. She doesn't speak. Tony: THE SHIT'S REALLY HITTING THE FAN. The girl tries to clear her head as the young man moves on to where others sleep on the floor. He wakes them up one at a time. We begin to hear voices over the busy hum of the studio. They have an electronic tinniness, as broadcast over a monitor. Fran looks about. She is still shaken from her dream. 3 We see the television studio. Reporters buzz about madly. Everybody looks dishevelled and exhausted. Technicians man monitors, and we see people on the little screens, arguing emotionally. 4 Voice: WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN? WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, WHAT'S MAKING IT HAPPEN. Voice: YES, BUT THAT'S... Voice: THAT'S A WHOLE OTHER STUDY. THEY'RE TRYING... Voice: BUT IF WE KNEW THAT, WE COULD... Voice: WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE DON'T KNOW THAT! WE'VE GOTTA OPERATE ON WHAT WE DO KNOW! 5 The room is pandemonium. People run in with wire copy; others organise the stacks of bulletins as they arrive. Others trip over cables and generally get in each other's way. 6 Francine stares at the madness, still trying to clear her head. Man's voice: I'M STILL DREAMING. Fran turns her head. Another young man sits next to her on the floor. He is one of the ones Tony awakened. Fran: NO YOU'RE NOT. Woman: MY TURN WITH THE COAT. Fran looks up. A young woman is offering her coffee in a paper cup. She is next in line for the overcoat and a few hours sleep. Fran takes the coffee and struggles to her feet. Woman: THE GUYS ON THE CREW ARE GETTING CRAZY. A BUNCH OF 'EM FLEW THE COOP ALREADY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER WE'LL BE ABLE TO STAY ON AIR. 7 Fran staggers over to the control consoles. The technicians are at the end of their ropes. Technicians: (all at once) WATCH CAMERA TWO...WHO THE HELL'S ON CAMERA TWO, A BLIND MAN... WATCH THE FRAME...WATCH THE FRAME... ROLL THE RESCUE STATIONS AGAIN. Technicians: WE GOT A REPORT THAT HALF THOSE RESCUE STATIONS HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OUT. SO GET ME A NEW LIST. SURE, I'LL PULL IT OUTA MY ASS. Fran focuses on the monitors. She is incredulous... stunned by the madness which surrounds her. She realises the hopelessness of the situation as she zeroes in on the televised conversation. 8 We begin to listen over the din of the news room. TV Man 1: I DON'T BELIEVE THAT, DOCTOR, AND I DON'T BELIEVE... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO... TV Man 2: DO YOU BELIEVE THE DEAD ARE RETURNING TO LIFE AND ATTACKING THE LIVING? TV Man 1: I'M NOT SO SURE WHAT TO BELIEVE DOCTOR! 9 Suddenly we cut into the studio, and we see the argument as it is being shot. TV Man 1: (con't) ALL WE GET IS WHAT YOU PEOPLE TELL US. AND IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE... TV Man 2: IT'S FACT... IT'S FACT... TV Man 1: IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BELIEVE WITHOUT YOU COMING IN HERE AND TELLING US WE HAVE TO FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY AND... TV Man 2: HUMAN DIG... YOU CAN'T... TV Man 1: ...FORGET ALL HUMAN DIGNITY... TV Man 2: YOU'RE NOT RUNNING A TALK SHOW HERE, MR. BERMAN...YOU CAN FORGET PITCHING AN AUDIENCE THE MORAL BULL SHIT THEY WANT TO HEAR! TV Man 1: YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ABANDONING EVERY HUMAN CODE OF BEHAVIOUR, AND THERE'S A LOT OF US WHO AREN'T READY FOR THAT DOCTOR FOSTER... 10 A great cry of assent goes up from the studio floor. Doctor Foster is flustered and frustrated. The stage hands and cameramen are all screaming at him, swearing and ridiculing. We notice Police guards, armed, at the studio doors. They control the traffic in and out of the big room. 11 Back at the control panel. Fran stares at the screens. Confusion still reigns. Man: FRANNIE, GET ON THE NEW LIST OF RESCUE STATIONS. CHARLIE'S RECEIVING ON THE EMERGENCIES... Fran pulls herself away from the monitors as the argument rages on screen. 12 She fights through the heavy traffic and reaches Charlie, a harassed typist who holds the receiver of an emergency radio unit under his chin... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN...CAN'T HEAR YOU... Fran: RESCUE STATIONS? Fran leafs through sheets of paper on Charlie's desk. He writes notes as he listens on the receiver, and he speaks to the woman. Charlie: HALF THOSE ARE INOPERATIVE ANY MORE. I'M TRYIN' TO FIND OUT AT LEAST ABOUT THE IMMEDIATE AREA. WE'VE HAD OLD INFORMATION ON THE AIR FOR THE LAST TWELVE HOURS. Fran: THESE ARE RESCUE STATIONS. WE CAN'T SEND PEOPLE TO INOPERATIVE... Charlie: (into receiver) SAY AGAIN, NEW HOPE... Charlie makes more notes and hands them to Fran. Still listening on the receiver, he speaks to the woman again. Charlie: I'M DOIN' WHAT I CAN. THESE ARE DEFINITE AS OF NOW. SKIP AND DUSTY ARE ON THE RADIO, TOO. GOOD LUCK. Fran snatches up the sheets and moves across the room. 13 She stops at the consoles... Fran: I'M GONNA KNOCK OFF THE OLD RESCUE STATIONS. I'LL HAVE THE NEW ONES READY AS SOON AS I CAN. Technician: WE'RE SENDING PEOPLE TO PLACES THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN. I'M GONNA KILL THE OLD LIST. 14 Fran moves toward another control room. An armed officer stops her. A young man rushing through with copy intercedes. Man: HEY, SHE'S ALRIGHT. Officer: WHERE'S YOUR BADGE? Fran reaches instinctively for the lapel of her blouse. Her badge is missing. Fran: JESUS! Man: SHE'S ALRIGHT. Fran: I HAD IT...I WAS ASLEEP OVER THERE... She makes a move toward the corner where she was asleep. Man: SOMEBODY STOLE IT. THERE'S A LOT OF 'EM MISSING. (to officer) SHE'S ALRIGHT. LET HER THROUGH. The officer reluctantly steps aside. 15 The young man and Fan move down a crowded hall and into a small camera room. The foot traffic is solid. They talk as they walk. Fran: I DON'T BELIEVE IT. Man: ONE OF THOSE LITTLE BADGES CAN OPEN A LOT OF DOORS...YOU AVOID A LOT OF HASSLES IF YOU GOT A BADGE...ANY KIND OF BADGE... Fran: IT'S REALLY GOING CRAZY. 16 They reach a small camera installation. The camera is aimed at a machine which rolls out a list of rescue stations. The list is superimposed over the live broadcast as it goes out. Cameraman: YOU GOT NEW ONES? Fran: I GOTTA TYPE 'EM UP. KILL THE OLD ONES. Cameraman: GIVENS WANT 'EM... Fran: KILL 'EM, DICK. TELL GIVENS TO SEE ME! The man clicks off his camera. Fran moves toward the studio. 17 On the monitors, we see the rescue stations blink off over shots of the two men who still argue on the air. TV Man 1: WELL I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, DOCTOR. TV Man 2: THESE ARE NOT GHOSTS. NOR ARE THESE HUMANS! THESE ARE DEAD CORPSES. ANY UN-BURIED HUMAN CORPSE WITH ITS BRAIN INTACT WILL IN FACT RE-ACTIVATE. AND IT'S PRECISELY BECAUSE OF INCITEMENT BY IRRESPONSIBLE PUBLIC FIGURES LIKE YOURSELF THAT THIS SITUATION IS BEING DEALT WITH IRRESPONSIBLY BY THE PUBLIC AT LARGE! 18 Another outraged cry goes up from the stagehands and observers. Doctor Foster tries to out-scream the cries... TV Man 2: YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED...YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED... FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS...WHAT DOES IT TAKE... WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE PEOPLE SEE? 19 Fran moves into the large studio area where the broadcasters argue. The commotion is maddening. Fran stares for a moment. 20 TV Man 2: (now distraught...almost pleading) THIS SITUATION IS CONTROLLABLE. PEOPLE MUST COME TO GRIPS WITH THIS CONCEPT. IT'S EXTREMELY DIFFICULT...WITH FRIENDS... WITH FAMILY...BUT A DEAD BODY MUST BE DE- ACTIVATED BY EITHER DESTROYING THE BRAIN OR SEVERING THE BRAIN FROM THE REST OF THE BODY. Another outburst in the studio. TV Man 2: THE SITUATION MUST BE CONTROLLED...BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE...THEY ARE MULTIPLYING TOO RAPIDLY... 21 Fran moves through the crowded room of emotional people and finally reaches another emergency radio installation. Skip and Dusty are trying to listen to their receivers. They jot notes. Fran: OPERATIVE RESCUE STATIONS? Dusty: THEY'RE DROPPIN' LIKE FLIES. HERE'S A FEW. YOU KNOW, I THINK FOSTER'S RIGHT. I THINK WE'RE LOSIN' THIS WAR. Fran: YEAH, BUT NOT TO THE ENEMY. WE'RE BLOWIN' IT OURSELVES. She gives the rest of her coffee to the two men. Fran: NOT MUCH LEFT, BUT HAVE A BALL. The two men each slug eagerly from the paper cup. Fran rushes off toward a large teleprompter typing machine. 22 The broadcasters still argue emotionally. TV Man 1: PEOPLE AREN'T WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR SOLUTIONS, DOCTOR, AND I, FOR ONE, DON'T BLAME THEM. TV Man 2: EVERY DEAD BODY THAT IS NOT EXTERMINATED BECOMES ONE OF THEM! IT GETS UP AND KILLS! THE PEOPLE IT KILLS GET UP AND KILL! 23 Handing the list of active rescue stations to the teleprompter typist, Fran rushes back toward the control room. 24 Around the monitor consoles, the commotion has been made even more frantic by an angered Dan Givens, obviously one of the station managers. Givens: NOBODY HAS THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT, I WANT... Givens spots Fran as she moves into the room. Givens: GARRET, WHO TOLD YOU TO KILL THE SUPERS? Fran: NOBODY. I KILLED 'EM. THEY'RE OUT OF DATE. Givens: I WANT THOSE SUPERS ON THE AIR ALL THE TIME. Fran: ARE YOU WILLING TO MURDER PEOPLE BY SENDING THEM OUT TO STATIONS THAT HAVE CLOSED DOWN? Givens: WITHOUT THOSE RESCUE STATIONS ON SCREEN EVERY MINUTE PEOPLE WON'T WATCH US. THEY'LL TUNE OUT. Fran stares at the red faced man in disbelief. Givens: I WANT THAT LIST UP ON THE SCREEN EVERY MINUTE THAT WE'RE ON THE AIR. Fran is about to say something in anger, but before she can, one of the technicians, having overheard Givens, gets up from the control panel and starts to walk away. Givens: LUCAS...LUCAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING... GET ON THAT CONSOLE...LUCAS...WE'RE ON THE AIR! Lucas: ANYBODY NEED A RIDE! 25 Two other men from various positions in the room snatch up personal effects and follow the technician toward the door. The door is guarded by a nervous Officer. 26 Givens: OFFICER...OFFICER...YOU STOP THEM...STOP THOSE MEN...LUCAS...GET BACK ON THIS CONSOLE... A frantic hubbub begins over the lack of console control. People rush in and out, the floor director's voice can be heard over a talk back system... Voices: WHAT THE HELL'S GOIN' ON IN THERE. SWITCH...SWITCH...THERE'S NO SWITCHER... WE'RE LOSING PICTURE... Givens: OFFICER...STOP THOSE MEN... 27 The young officer faces the men as they reach his post. He takes a grip on his rifles, opens the door and lets the group through. Then he runs out himself, deserting the losing cause. 28 Givens jumps toward the console. He frantically tries to work the complex dials and pots... Givens: GET SOMEBODY IN HERE THAT KNOWS HOW TO RUN THIS THING...COME ON...I'LL TRIPLE THE MONEY FOR THE MAN THAT CAN RUN THIS THING...TRIPLE THE MONEY...WE'RE STAYING ON THE AIR... Fran moves slowly off toward the studio. 29 In the big room, the tension is thicker than ever. A few of the newsmen still earnestly try to perform their various functions, but most of the crew are reduced to emotional polarisation over the broadcast which still rages. 30 TV Man 2: THEY KILL FOR ONE REASON. THEY KILL FOR FOOD. THEY EAT THEIR VICTIMS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, MR. BERMAN. THAT'S WHAT KEEPS THEM GOING. 31 Fran stops to listen to the argument. She falls back into the shadows of the studio. People rush past her, some leaving the studio in disgust. 32 TV Man 2: IF WE'D LISTENED...IF WE'D DEALT WITH THE PHENOMENON PROPERLY...WITHOUT EMOTION... WITHOUT...EMOTION... IT WOULDN'T HAVE COME TO THIS! Foster wipes his sweat with a dirty hanker chief. He pulls his tie away from his tight collar, and pops the shirt button open. He is desperate now, shivering with anger and frustration. TV Man 2: THERE IS A MARTIAL LAW STATE IN EFFECT IN PHILADELPHIA...AS IN ALL OTHER MAJOR CITIES IN THE COUNTRY... CITIZENS MUST UNDERSTAND THE...DIRE...DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS PHENOMENON...SHOULD WE BE UNABLE TO CHECK THE SPREAD... BECAUSE OF THE EMOTIONAL ATTITUDES..OF THE CITIZENRY...TOWARD...THESE ISSUES OF... MORALITY... IT IS THE ORDER OF THE O.E.P. BY COMMAND OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT...THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES... CITIZENS MAY NO LONGER OCCUPY PRIVATE RESIDENCES, NO MATTER HOW SAFELY PROTECTED OR WELL STOCKED... A murmur in the studio begins to build to an emotional crescendo. Foster tries to talk over the noise... TV Man 2: CITIZENS WILL BE MOVED INTO CENTRAL AREAS OF THE CITY... 33 Technicians abandon their posts. A few others jump in to take their places, but pandemonium reigns. A cameraman whips off his headset and breaks for the door. His camera spins on its liquid head, and on the monitors, we see a whirling blur as Foster continues to speak. Fran moves quickly for the spinning camera. She aims it back at the sweating Foster, and she stares through the viewfinder not believing what she is seeing. 34 TV Man 2: THE BODIES OF THE DEAD WILL BE DELIVERED OVER TO SPECIALLY EQUIPPED SQUADS OF THE NATIONAL GUARD FOR ORGANISED DISPOSITION... 35 Suddenly a man darts out of the bustling crowd and comes up quickly behind Fran. Steve: FRANNIE...AT NINE O'CLOCK MEET ME ON THE ROOF. WE'RE GETTING OUT. Fran: (letting the camera slip slightly) STEPHEN...I DON'T BELIEVE THIS...WHAT... Steve: WE'RE GETTING OUT. IN THE CHOPPER. Another technician steps over to take the camera from Fran. Stephen talks more quietly in the other man's presence. Steve: NINE P.M. ALRIGHT? Fran: STEVE...WE CAN'T...WE'VE GOT TO... Steve: WE'VE GOT TO NOTHING, FRAN. WE'VE GOT TO SURVIVE. SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SURVIVE. NOW YOU COULD BE UP THERE AT NINE. DON'T MAKE ME COME LOOKIN' FOR YA. Stephen is gone in a flash. Fran nervously looks back at the cameraman. The argument still rages between Foster and Berman. The cameraman, without taking his eye from the viewfinder, speaks to Francine quietly and slowly. Cameraman: GO AHEAD. WE'LL BE OFF THE AIR BY MIDNIGHT ANYWAY. EMERGENCY NETWORKS ARE TAKING OVER. OUR RESPONSIBILITY... IS FINISHED, I'M AFRAID. 36 It is dusk, and the city of Philadelphia is surprisingly quiet. We see several large buildings. They are part of a low-income housing project, and their lack of grace is evident. They stand like tombstones as the first stars appear in the navy blue sky. 37 Under cover of the growing darkness, activities of the S.W.A.T. Unit go unnoticed. Grappling hooks grab against the lip around the roof and silent figures climb to the top of the building. Men in armour vests, clutching the latest in special weapons, take position here and there about the development. Other men strategically place their cars and trucks in the court below. 38 On the roof, at an entrance to one of the building's fire stairs, Roger squats silently alongside three other team members. The men check their weapons. Roger looks at his watch. The sweep hand reaches the 12... Roger: (to himself) LIGHTS. 39 In an instant, large searchlights bathe the side of the building. The troop commander, shielded with other Officers behind a large truck, shouts through an electric bullhorn. Commander: MARTINEZ...YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING...YOU KNOW WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED... The electronically amplified voice echoes through the concrete caverns between the buildings of the project. There are only a few windows which glow with lights from inside. At the sound of the bullhorn, the lights all blink out one at a time. Commander: (not over the bullhorn) LITTLE BASTARD'S GOT 'EM ALL MOVED INTO ONE BUILDING...DUMB LITTLE BASTARD! Sergeant: LOOKS LIKE THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO FIGHT US. Commander: (on the bullhorn again) MARTINEZ...THE PEOPLE IN THIS PROJECT ARE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY...WE DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM HURT AND NEITHER DO YOU! 42 There is no sign of life in the building. The great concrete slab is silhouetted silently against the darkening sky. 43 Roger, and his team mates, crouch in readiness. The sound of the bullhorn rises to them easily and clearly. Roger: I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... Commander: (Bullhorn) I'M GIVIN' YOU THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ... TURN OVER YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER... Roger: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU... Commander: THERE ARE NO CHARGES AGAINST YOU OR ANY OF YOUR PEOPLE... Roger: YET. Commander: THREE MINUTES, MARTINEZ. Roger: AND COUNTING. (he looks at his watch) There is a long silence. Roger: COME ON, MARTINEZ! One of the other S.W.A.T. team members is a big man, with a rough and vicious looking face. He is WOOLEY, a hardened veteran, and a red neck of the first order. Wooley: YEAH, COME ON, MARTINEZ...SHOW YOUR GREASY LITTLE PUERTO RICAN ASS...SO I CAN BLOW IT OFF... Roger looks over at the big man. He is distressed at the pent up violence in Wooley. Wooley: I'LL BLOW ALL THEIR ASSES OFF...LOW LIFE BASTARDS.. BLOW ALL THEIR LITTLE LOW LIFE PUERTO RICAN AND NIGGER ASSES RIGHT OFF... Roger is greatly concerned. He looks at one of the other men, a young, smoothed faced rookie. The boy doesn't know now to react. He is obviously nervous. Roger: KEEP COOL. JUST DON'T POP OFF IN THERE WHEN WE GO IN. The boy nods, grateful for a more human contact. Wooley: HOW THE HELL COME WE STICK THESE LOW LIFES IN THESE BIG ASS FANCY HOTELS ANYWAY? SHIT MAN. THIS' BETTER THAN I GOT. YOU AIN'T GONNA TALK 'EM OUTA HERE. YOU GOTTA BLOW 'EM OUT. BLOW THEIR ASSES! Roger: (to the boy) YOU GONNA BE ALRIGHT? The boy nods in the affirmative. Wooley: LET'S GET ON WITH IT. THIS IS A WASTE OF MY TIME! 44 CRASH! Without warning, the metal door to the fire stair bursts open and several figures rush out of the darkness. Shots are fired from hand guns. A bullet smashes through the skull of the young boy next to Roger. He falls against Roger with a pleading expression on his face. Figures charge this way and that. More gunfire. The other S.W.A.T. men dodge and dive for cover. Wooley opens fire with his automatic weapon. 45 On the street, the Commander, hearing the gunfire, barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MOVE IN...MOVE IN... GODDAMMIT! Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) ALL UNITS... FULL OPERATION! 46 On the roof, Roger struggles under the dead weight of the young man. He tries to free himself and his weapons. Shots ring out. A handful of Black and Puerto Rican youngsters charge about the rooftop. Another S.W.A.T. patrol appears from behind a large elevator housing. The young civilians retreat. Several are mowed down. Another bullet smashes against the dead S.W.A.T. man's back. Just as Roger frees himself, a bullet catches him squarely in the chest, but his armour takes the impact. He is thrown back off balance, and he struggles to catch his wind as he scrambles over to recover his weapon which skitters away across the roof top. Before he reaches the gun, he is cut off by the looming figure of one of the Black youths, pistol in hand. Roger freezes. The young man aims his hand gun, but hesitates. A sudden barrage of bullets rips through the young Black and he falls in a pool of blood. It was Wooley's gun that killed him. Wooley: COME ON YOU DUMB BASTARDS... COME AND GET 'EM... He fires again and again, even though the skirmish is winding down. Roger charges for his weapon, snatches it up, and runs for the cover of an incinerator housing. He startles a young civilian who was hiding there, trying to load his gun. The boy makes a break... Roger: HOLD IT... The boy freezes for a moment, then, thinking, breaks into a run across the roof. Roger: HOLD IT, KID...DON'T RUN OUT THERE! The boy is mowed down in a crossfire. 47 Inside the building, other S.W.A.T. teams along with units of the National Guard are crashing through hallways and breaking into apartment units. People are herded into the halls where they are held at gun point. Some men, although armed, surrender willingly. Others retaliate against the invading force, and little skirmishes develop on every floor of the complex structure. 48 On the ground, the Commander barks into the bullhorn: Commander: MASKS... Sergeant: (into walkie talkie) MASKS FOR GAS...MASKS FOR GAS. 49 Tear gas canisters crash through windows and the halls are filled with clouds of gas. Civilians trying to escape, are choked as they attempt to shoot their way out. 50 The teams on the roof charge down the fire stairs into the building. S.W.A.T. 1: WORK YOUR WAY DOWN. A FLOOR AT A TIME. HOLD 'EM IN THE HALLS 'TIL WE CAN WORK 'EM DOWN THE STAIRS. Roger and Wooley and the men in their unit, snap on their bizarre looking gas masks. 51 The troopers break into an apartment on the floor. An old couple kneels in prayer at a small alter, while their children and their children's children huddle in a corner. The young husband surrenders his gun to a trooper, and Roger watches as the group is led into the hallway. Suddenly, a young Black man charges out of one of the apartments. A woman appears at the door, screaming for him to stop. He breaks through a cloud of gas and Wooley fires his automatic. The black man crashes to the floor. Wooley is crazed. He kicks in the door of another apartment and fires randomly into the room. The flurry of action causes panic among the civilians in the hall. The younger ones try to escape while the older people kneel or fall against the walls praying. S.W.A.T. 2: WOOLEY'S GONE APE SHIT, MAN... Roger: WOOLEY! (shouting) Wooley kicks in the door of another apartment. Roger charges at him and grabs him around the shoulders. The big man resists. His gun fires and bullets fly wildly. He struggles against Roger, but Roger manages to hold on. Roger: GIMME A HAND...SOMEBODY... Another S.W.A.T. Trooper steps up out of the cloud of gas. He is very tall and he looks mysterious in the fog as he speaks in a deep voice. Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM. Roger: GIMME A HAND. Wooley throws his body around and slams Roger against the wall, but Roger grabs him again just as the crazed man is levelling off his gun at the open apartment door. Roger: GODDAMMIT...HELP ME...HE'S CRAZY! Trooper: STEP AWAY FROM HIM! Just then, Wooley wrenches free and pushes Roger across the hallway. The Trooper carefully aims his weapon and fires one shot through Wooley's head. The big man falls back violently. The mysterious Trooper turns and hurries away down the hall. Other S.W.A.T. Officers face him threateningly. He stares at them through his mask. They let him pass. He disappears through the smoke as other officers begin to restore order among the civilians. Women scream and cry over their dead-loved ones. Roger is helped to his feet by another Officer. Roger's eyes are wide and staring through the insect-like lenses of his mask. They are locked on the sight he sees through the door of the apartment which Wooley kicked open. The other Trooper looks and his eyes widen as well. 53 In the apartment, lying in a pool of blood, are the partial remains of what was a human body. It has been ripped to shreds. Roger staggers against the door frame. The other trooper moves inside. Another corpse, also mutilated, one leg missing, one arm badly mangled. It is trying to move. To reach the Troopers. 54 A sudden loud scream. Roger startles and spins around. A woman in the hall has seen the grisly sight, and she runs screaming down the corridor. More confusion, as civilians push through the Troopers who try to hold them back. 55 The Trooper in the apartment is revulsed... Trooper: JESUS...HOLY JESUS... A third officer enters the apartment. He speaks to the Trooper which is closest to the writhing corpse on the floor. Trooper 2: SHOOT IT...SHOOT IT THROUGH THE HEAD. The young officer is too dumb struck to respond so the third Officer pulls out his pistol. Then suddenly, from out of the shadows, a spectre-like figure lunges at the third Officer, flailing and biting at his arms. It is a wild-haired woman. There are several bleeding wounds over her body. She is one of the walking dead. The Trooper struggles to free himself, and Roger darts into the room. Although the Zombie is weak, she manages to hold on to the Trooper. Another creature suddenly appears in the bedroom doorway. A male, it staggers out into the room. The young Trooper struggles with his holster trying to free his hand gun. Suddenly, he feels something on his leg. The dismembered corpse is clutching his ankle, pulling itself closer, it's mouth open. The boy tries to pull away, but falls onto the floor, crashing over a table and lamp. He tries to crawl away, but the frail corpse keeps its hold and drags along behind the young Trooper, who still cannot free his pistol. Roger and the third Officer fling all their weight against the woman Zombie. She flies against a wall, but bounces back immediately, and attacks again. The third Trooper's rifle fires. A slug tears through the woman's chest but it doesn't stop her onslaught. Another shot rips through her neck. Still she comes. The boy on the floor manages to level off his pistol. He fires at the ghoulish head which draws closer to his leg. The thing's skull blows open and its grasp relaxes. The boy is shaking violently. His arm and gun stay in the air, still poised. He fires again...and again...and again. 56 In the hall, the male Zombie appears, and the crowd panics. The Troopers try to keep things calm. S.W.A.T. 3: IT'S ONE OF THEM...MY GOD...IT'S ONE OF THEM. S.W.A.T. 4: SHOOT FOR THE HEAD. Woman: NO! NO! MIGUEL...DIOS MIO...MIGUELITO... The woman pushes through the crowd. The Zombies advances. Before the Trooper can stop her, the woman throws her arms around the creature. Woman: MIGUEL...MI VIDA...MIGUELITO... S.W.A.T. 3: GRAB HER...GET HER OUT OF THERE... (his gun is levelled off, but he can't get a shot) The Zombie clutches at the woman. It bites at her neck...her arm. She screams with terror. She tries to pull away, but the creature holds her. It bites again. A Trooper comes up from behind and tries to wrestle the creature away. Another Trooper grabs the woman and tries to free her. She is screaming insanely. The Zombie pulls another piece of flesh off her arm. S.W.A.T. 3: STAND CLEAR...FOR CHRISSAKE...STAND CLEAR! 57 In the apartment, the female Zombie lunges at the third Trooper and the two tumble to the floor. Roger wrestles her free and, with all his might, throws her against the wall. She advances again. Roger raises his gun, She is just about to reach him. He fires. The bullet drops her. 58 In the hall, a Trooper brings his gun butt slamming against the male ghoul's head. The creature loses his grip on the screaming woman. The Trooper who is holding her, pulls her free across the floor. S.W.A.T. 3 fires. The bullet tears through the Zombie's shoulder...another shot...through his neck...another...through the skull. It falls. 59 There is finally a calm. A few of the citizens murmur prayers. Troopers and befuddled old people seem to drift through the clouds of gas in a totally dazed state. 60 Roger and the third Trooper from the apartment drift to the hallway. The third Trooper moves into the crowd, but Roger stands against the open door jamb for a moment. A sudden, loud gunshot makes Roger duck and spin around. He looks into the apartment. The young Trooper has shot

strife

How many times the word 'strife' appears in the text?