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Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

preparations

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

sits

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

a.m.

How many times the word 'a.m.' appears in the text?

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

now

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

controls

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

noises

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

body

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

struggles

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

his

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

huh

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

in

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

distress

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

reverse

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

broadside

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

caught

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

loud

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

just

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

lead

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

woman

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

Fran starts to say something, but this time Peter cuts her off. Peter: ...AND YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US! Again the woman starts to protest, but Peter continues. Peter: AND YOU WILL NOT COME WITH US UNTIL YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. THAT MEANS LEARN TO SHOOT AND LEARN TO FIGHT. The big man starts back up the pyramid. Roger moves to follow him. Fran: SOMETHING ELSE. The men look at her. She faces Roger and Peter directly without looking at Stephen. Fran: I DON'T KNOW ANOUT YOU TWO, BUT I WANNA LEARN HOW TO FLY THAT HELICOPTER. Stephen is shocked. Fran looks at him and lowers her eyes. Fran: IF ANYTHING HAPPENS...WE'VE GOTTA BE ABLE TO GET OUT OF HERE. Stephen doesn't know what to say. He looks at the woman, then up at the other men. Peter: SHE'S RIGHT, FLYBOY. COME ON, LET'S GO. Fran: AND YOU'RE NOT LEAVING ME WITHOUT A GUN AGAIN. Stephen thinks about protesting but he complies by slowly setting his rifle down on the cartons. Then he fishes in his pocket for a fistful of shells and dumps them next to the gun. He stares at the woman angry and hurt. Fran picks up the weapon and shoots a glance up at Peter. Fran: I JUST MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE IT. Peter and Roger disappear through the skylight. Stephen stands still. He looks down at the floor. Fran moves close to his side. Fran: I'M SORRY, STEPHEN. (it is not an apology) Steve: I KNOW...I KNOW...IT'S ALRIGHT! He starts up to the skylight. Fran: STEPHEN Steve: YEAH. He stops and turns to look at her. Her eyes are pleading for understanding, but he is incapable of it at the moment. Fran just shrugs off whatever she was going to say, and she sighs with exasperation. Fran: BE CAREFUL. Steve: YEAH, WE'LL BE ALRIGHT. He disappears through the skylight. Fran stares down at the weapon in her hands, then she steps over and clicks off the television. 397 The sudden, loud noise of the chopper engine as it hovers. Only Stephen is on board at the controls. 398 In the cab of one of the big trailer trucks Roger is crouching working on the wiring beneath the dashboard. 399 Peter sits on the cab of another truck. He tries the complicated shift mechanism and fidgets with the other controls. Then he pulls out. He stops the big vehicle with his cab just abreast of the cab Roger is working in. Peter: HOW ABOUT IT? Roger: GETTIN' IT. 400 Peter looks around. The mall can be seen in the distance. On the ground between, there are a few Zombies scattered about in little clusters. None of them present any immanent danger. 401 Roger sits up and is able to start his truck. Peter: I'LL JUST RIDE PICK UP, I'M NOT TOO SURE OF THIS THING... Roger: I GREW UP ON ONE OF THESE, LET'S GO. 402 The great trucks lumber away from the warehouse. They pull across the little loading lot and out a ramp toward the roadway. Stephen hovers overhead in the chopper, following the trucks as closely as he can. 403 On the roof of the mall, Fran clutches her rifle. She sees the big trucks roar up over the hill, the helicopter just above them. It is a strange looking convoy as it speeds toward the trucks as closely as it can. 404 Along the road, several Zombies try to stagger after the trucks but they are left in the dust of the speeding vehicles. The creatures lumber along slowly behind. 405 The vehicles pull into the little grade which loads into the mall's parking lot. They roar right toward the building. 406 At one of the building entrances, a cluster of Zombies is moving in and lot of the main doors. Others wander nearby in the parking lot. Attracted by the sounds of the engines, the creatures turn and face the trucks. As Peter pulls his vehicle in a wide arc, Roger drives his right up to the side of the building and roars toward the entrance doors. Then he skips his right wheels up onto the curb, and with a great, scraping crunch, the big truck pulls directly abreast of the building, flush with the entrance. The huge vehicle crushes several of the helpless creatures and knocks other flying back. 407 The trailer of the truck has totally blocked off the mall entrance. Several Zombies trapped inside try to push the glass doors open. The doors move, but cannot be opened wide enough for the creatures to get out. 408 The few creatures immediately around the truck begin clambering at its sides. Roger shuts off the engine and grabs his gun as other Zombies begin clutching at the windows of the cab. 409 Overhead, the whirlybird hovers very close by. Now Peter's big truck pulls up alongside so that Peter's passenger door is directly abreast of the free door on Roger's cab. Peter's truck also crushes one or two of the creatures, but there are still several in the immediate vicinity of the cab. 410 As Roger opens his door and scrambles into the other truck, one of the Zombies grabs hold. Roger just manages to kick the creature off as the big truck pulls out and roars across the lot. 411 The helicopter flies straight up and directly over the roof of the big shopping centre, where Fran has been watching the action. She now runs to the other side of the roof, the wind from the chopper whipping her hair. 412 The chopper turns and waits for the big truck to move up under it, then the whirlybird escorts the trailer back to the warehouse down the road. 413 Roger is whooping and hollering like a cowboy as the big rig pulls up beside another of the parked vans. Peter: COME ON, COME ON... THREE MORE BABY. Roger: LIKE A CHARM, HUH? LIKE A FUCKING CHARM! Roger grabs his knapsack and climbs into the new cab where he immediately goes to work on jumping the engine cables. 414 From the helicopter overhead, Stephen spots something moving around the warehouse. He jockeys the chopper slightly for a better look and he sees a small group of Zombies wandering out of the big garage directly toward Roger's truck. 415 In the meantime, Peter's truck pulls away from the cab Roger is in. The big vehicle rolls into the large paved area behind the warehouse where Peter can turn it around easily. 416 Stephen swoops down with the big bird. He buzzes as close as he can to Roger's truck, trying to signal the man. 417 Roger continues to work on the cables, still whooping like a child. The Zombies are very close at hand. They have just about reached the cab. Stephen buzzes again. Roger doesn't notice. 418 Peter has now backed up into a position which enables him to pull out. He looks up to see the helicopter heading straight for him. 419 The big chopper buzzes right over Peter's cab then spins around heading back for Roger. 420 Peter looks toward the other truck. He can now see the lumbering creatures. He tries to slam the truck into gear, but the complicated shift mechanism fights him. 421 One Zombie slams its hands against the driver-side window of Roger's truck. The man startles and tries to untangle himself from his cramped position under the big steering wheel. He is stuck for a moment. The other creatures appear at the passenger side of the cab, where the door is open. One grabs at Roger's legs. Roger kicks violently, but can't get a good position. He falls lower onto the floor of the cab, his body almost knotted among the controls and the shift sticks. 422 Peter's truck starts to roll, but it accelerates slowly. 423 The helicopter tries to buzz the clutching ghouls, but they do not even flinch. The wind from the propeller blades whip at the creatures' hair, making them look even more frightening as they claw at the desperate Roger. 424 The man kicks and kicks, but he cannot deliver a solid blow from his pinned position. His hand gropes on the seat of the truck for his rifle, which suddenly fires as the man's fingers inadvertently hit the trigger. A shell blasts through the chest of the lead creature, but the thing pays little attention. 425 Peter's truck is starting to roll faster. He heads right for Roger's cab. 426 The helicopter hovers as Stephen tries to see the action. 427 Now Roger has a good grip on his gun, but he cannot clear the long weapon from around the gear sticks. The lead Zombie is actually scrambling into the cab and is all but on top of the struggling Trooper. 428 The second creature is about to claw its way in when, with a great roar, Peter's truck swings up and crushes it. 429 Roger is desperately trying to keep the other Zombie's mouth away. They are wrestling now. The Zombie is weak, as usual, but Roger is still hampered by the position he is in. 430 Peter has pulled too far past the other truck. He slams his rig into reverse and backs up. Now his window is in a direct line with the open door on Roger's cab. He raises his rifle and aims, but he cannot get a clear shot. He shouts loudly trying to overcome the noise of the truck engine and the hovering helicopter. Peter: GET ITS HEAD UP...GET ITS HEAD UP... 431 Roger realises that Peter is outside. He struggles with the creature, dropping his gun. His hands manage to get a stranglehold on the creature's neck. He pushes up with all his might. The Zombie's hands are clutching at the man's face. It's fingers push at the man's eyes. 432 Peter sees the opportunity and fires. The gun roars loudly. 433 The Zombie's head flies apart. Remnants of blood and brain tissue splatter the inside of the cab and the driver's window. The gummy stuff flies into Roger's face. The Zombie falls limp, but Roger is still desperate. The dead weight of the creature is now on top of him, and the bloody wound runs. Roger is frantic. He frees himself with great heaves of his body and he pushes the creature out of the cab. The man's eyes are wide with revulsion. He instantly brings up his sleeve to wipe the stains from his face. He is quivering in extremes of emotions. A sudden crash. Roger spins. The Zombie at the driver door has smashed through the cab window with a brick. Roger, still shaking, dives down to the floor for his weapon. 434 Peter tries to level off a shot but he cannot because Roger is in the way... Peter: GET DOWN...STAY DOWN...I GOT IT! 435 Roger, in his adrenalised anger, sits up with his gun and levels off on the creature himself. He fires. The shell crashes through the already shattered glass and squarely into the creatures head. Roger: YOU BASTARDS...YOU BASTARDS... It seems as though his mind is snapping. His voice quivers as does his body. Roger: WE GOT 'EM, BUDDY...WE GOT 'EM DIDN'T WE! 436 Peter: COOL IT, MAN...GET YOUR HEAD... 437 Roger: WE GOT THIS BY THE ASS...GOT THIS BY THE ASS! Roger is screaming. He dives down to work on the jumping again. 438 Peter: HEY, ROG...GET YOUR HEAD MAN...COME ON... WE GOT A LOT TO DO...ROGER... 439 There is no response from the other truck. Peter is about to open his door and step out when suddenly Roger sits up again. The engine of the truck roars. He seems to have calmed down some. He looks across at Peter. Roger: LET'S GO BABY...NUMBER TWO... Peter: YOU ALRIGHT? Roger: PERFECT, BABY...PERFECT! Roger guns the engine on his truck. The big vehicle lumbers out of the area. Peter follows suit. 440 The two Semis rumble out of the warehouse lot and start down the grade toward the road. The helicopter escorts them. 441 A few Zombies are walking up the road slowly. 442 Roger's eyes get wider with anger. He steers his big rig right for the creatures. 443 The front of the cab smashes into two of them. One is crushed under the wheels, the other flies back from the impact. 444 Fran watches with anxiety. She sees the two trucks pull up over the rise with the helicopter following. We hear spirited music as the convoy approaches the mall building. 445 The two trucks roar around the entrance ramps into the parking lot and again, the chopper zooms right over the roof. 446 Fran trots across the roof to see the action in the lot. 447 the trucks rumble toward the second set of doors. The music continues through the entire action. 448 Roger steers his giant vehicle directly broadside to the doors. The cab knocks over several creatures and scrapes the building as the trailer blocks off the entrance. This time there are still creatures alive in the immediate area. They clutch at the cab of the truck and leap at the doors. 449 Fran, watching from directly above, seems inspired, caught up in the bravery of the moment. As she sees the creatures converging on the truck, she aims her rifle at them. Before she fires, Peter's rig slides next to Roger's, cabs abreast. 450 Peter's truck knocks over several of the clutching creatures. One Zombie, caught directly under the front wheels, is still alive and clutching at the air. Several creatures jump at Peter's driver side window. 451 Roger, grabbing his gun, moves to leave his truck on Peter's side, but the trucks are too close. His door won't open enough to get out. He rolls down his window. Peter has noticed Roger's door won't open, and the Trooper fumbles with the gear shift in order to pull away, but he hears Roger shouting: Roger: THE WINDOWS...OPEN YOUR WINDOW...YOUR WINDOW... Peter dives across the cab and rolls down the passenger window. Roger leans out his open window, trying to get his weapon into firing position. One or two Zombies are squeezing through the narrow space between the truck. They are just about to reach Roger when he fires, killing the lead ghoul. More Zombies move around Roger's cab, moments away from him. 452 The helicopter buzzes the area as Stephen watches the Zombies converge on the cab. 453 Fran, her hair blowing front he chopper, tries to aim her rifle into the pack of creatures. Her hair covers her eyes and she brushes it away with irritation. Fran: ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER...IN FRONT, ROGER... She shouts over the engine noises, getting very excited. 454 Roger fires again and again down the narrow space between the rigs. Another Zombie falls. Peter: FOR CHRISSAKE COME ON! Roger is still emotionally crazed. He leans out of his window in a very vulnerable position. He is whooping like a child again as he tries to level off another shot. Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind by a Zombie and almost falls out the window. He struggles to hold himself and keep a grip on his gun. Peter leans over, trying to get a shot at the creature, but can't get a clean sight. Roger grabs the window frames on Peter's door and tries to pull himself up. Another creature grabs him from behind. 455 Fran watches with emotion in her eyes. Fran: MONSTERS! MONSTERS! She fires her gun. 456 The bullet slams into the pavement kicking up a cloud of smoke. It narrowly misses a creature. Fran fires again. Her shot tears into the shoulder of the Zombie, but it doesn't stop him. 457 The chopper zooms very close. Peter still cannot aim his rifle, but Roger, using both hands, brings his gun butt in an uppercut. It slams against a creature which is grabbing him and drives the thing staggering back. Then with a desperate driving motion, Roger climbs through the window of Peter's cab. 458 Peter pulls the big rig away even while Roger's legs still kick out the window. The Zombies grab at Roger's ankles, and one manages to hold on as the truck starts to move. 459 Fran fires again and again. 460 This shot rips into the Zombie holding Roger's leg. It lets go and falls, rolling across the pavement. The woman fires again, hitting the pavement. The creature struggles to its knees. She fires again and hits the creature's neck. Again. Shoulder. Again...head. The Zombie sprawls on the pavement. Fran is exultant, she aims and fires at another creature. 461 The helicopter passes overhead. The music is still stirring. 462 In Peter's truck, just rolling out the lot, Roger realises: Roger: JESUS! Peter: WHAT? Roger: MY GODDAM BAG...I LEFT MY GODDAM BAG IN THE OTHER TRUCK. Peter brings his vehicle to a screeching halt. Peter: ALRIGHT, NOW YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU BETTER SCREW YOUR FUCKIN' HEAD ON, BABY! Roger: YEAH, YEAH...I'M O.K. LET'S GO. Suddenly, Peter grabs the Trooper by his lapels and slams him back against the door of the cab. Peter: I MEAN IT! NOW YOU'RE NOT JUST PLAYIN' WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUR PLAYIN' WITH MINE! The two men stare at each other for a moment. Roger is startled somewhat out of his emotional rush. Peter: (softer) ALRIGHT, NOW ARE YOU STRAIGHT? Roger: YEAH. Peter lets him go and returns to the wheel. He guns the engine and roars into a big arcing turn in the parking lot. 463 When Fran sees the truck returning, she looks up from her gun sight. The helicopter has already flown over the roof, and Stephen is confused as to why the truck hadn't appeared on the road. Fran turns and tries to signal to Stephen. 464 He finally sees her and flies closer. The woman waves a signal and the chopper buzzes back over the lot. 465 Her hair blowing wildly, Fran takes up her post again, her rifle ready. She thinks a moment, then begins to reload the weapon pulling the shells from her blouse pocket. 466 Peter's truck zooms back into position, colliding with some of Zombies in the vicinity. 467 Roger immediately climbs through the windows into the original cab. He snatches up his knapsack and several tools which are strewn over the seat and floor. Again, creatures converge on the cab area. Two more come up between the trucks, several come around the front of the cab. 468 Fran is still loading. 469 The helicopter buzzes. 470 As Roger climbs back through the window, his pack accidentally falls to the ground. With reflex action, he drops between the cabs, landing on his feet. He is facing the two creatures which are very close. He reaches up and with on hand on each of the open window frames, he swings his legs up hard. His kick sends the creatures sprawling. Then, he bends to collect his pack and is grabbed from behind. 471 Peter tries to level off his gun but he cannot get a shot. 472 Neither can Fran who is shouting from the roof. 473 Roger keeps his head this time. His first thought is for the pack of tools. He tosses the sack into the cab of Peter's truck as though he were making a hook shot with a basketball. 474 Peter catches the pack as several of the tools clatter out and onto the floor of the cab. 475 The creature which has a hold on Roger takes advantage of the man's imbalance from throwing the knapsack. It bites at the man's arm. Roger tears away, but blood appears at the wound. Then Roger squares off a solid punch right to the Zombie's jaw. The creature flies back and almost knocks over the Zombies behind it. Roger jumps, making a grab for the window of Peter's cab. The Zombies between the trucks, which Roger originally kicked away, have regrouped. They advance and grab at the struggling trooper. Roger's feet try to get hold on the side of the door, but they slip. 476 Peter moves to drop his rifle and grab Roger's hands, but Roger falls from the high window back to the pavement. Peter draws his hand gun. 477 Roger leaps again, his hands catching the window frame. The Zombies are clutching at him. Again he swings up his legs and kicks the creatures off balance. This time he manages to get his feet locked against the door and Peter grabs the Troopers arm with his free hand, but another Zombie is pulling at the man's shirt and still another makes a grab for his legs. Peter reaches out with his pistol and fires a point blank shot at one of the clutching ghouls. It flies back and Roger is able to pull himself higher. His torso is just about through the window when another creature grabs him. 478 Peter can no longer get a shot as Roger fills the window, so the big man drops his pistol and pulls Roger's arm with all his might. 479 Roger is almost all the way in but his legs still dangle, kicking. Peter starts the truck. As it begins to roll away, one of the clutching Zombies is able to get a solid hold on Roger's left leg. The creature opens its mouth and bites at the calf. Blood appears. The creature bites again and this time it comes away with bits of flesh tangled in a bloodstained strip op material from Roger's trousers. 480 Roger screams in pain and kicks violently. The truck accelerates and the Zombie finally falls clear. 481 It rolls on the pavement for a little way before it stops. Then it sits on the ground, looking like a gorilla. It still has a bloody mass of flesh and material in its mouth. With its hands it tries to separate the cloth from the more important morsels. A bullet pings into the cement near the chewing Zombie. Another tears through its shoulder. It still is concerned only with its prize. 482 Fran is firing, swearing through her teeth as the gun roars. She finally hits the seated creature squarely in the head. 483 We see it fall from her point of view on the roof. Others walk by the corpse without taking notice. 484 The helicopter escorts the big truck back to the warehouse. 485 As it rumbles along, Roger, in extreme pain, is tying his belt tightly around his leg as a tourniquet. He sucks air through his teeth in anguish. Peter: THAT'S IT. Roger: BULL SHIT. Peter: WE GOTTA DEAL WITH THAT LEG! Roger: I'M DEALIN' WITH IT...I'M DEALIN' WITH IT FINE! I WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK ON THIS AT ALL IF WE WAIT. Peter: CAN YOU WALK ON IT NOW? Roger: YOUR DAMN RIGHT, I CAN...DAMN RIGHT, I CAN! The wounded trooper struggles to wrap the bloody part of his leg with a torn off piece of trouser. He can hardly keep from screaming, and his words come out sharply and with great breaths between them. Roger: I STOP MOVIN' THIS LEG...MAY NOT EVER GET IT GOIN' AGAIN...THERE'S A LOT TO GET DONE BEFORE...BEFORE YOU CAN AFFORD TO LOSE ME... The big Black man stares at his friend for a moment. Then he drives on to the warehouse escorted by the chopper. 486 There is now a huge trailer truck at each of the four main entrances to the mall. They are very close to the doors, if not completely flush. Some of the glass portals can be opened not slightly, but not enough for the Zombies inside to pass through. 487 In the parking lot, the creatures mob around the trucks, frustrated that they cannot pass into the building. They clutch and claw at the enormous vehicles but to no avail. Some try to climb up onto the cabs. Others try to claw at the doors on the trailers. 488 Some creatures are crawling under the rigs: When they reach the mall doors they cannot stand, so they have no leverage. The creatures inside are pushing the doors out, so the Zombies under the trucks cannot push them in. The doors swing both in and out, so it is very clear that some access could be had by the creatures if they were more organised. One creature, having crawled under a trailer, does manage to push open a mall door. The thing crawls into the building through the legs of other ghouls which are trying to exit. They behave as a swarm of insects. The revolving door offers the best access for the creatures, although its inherent complexity is baffling to their empty brains. Two creatures do manage to crawl under the truck which blocks the revolving door, and one of them negotiates the rotating action and enters the concourse. 489 Peter and Stephen are huddled over the maps of the building. They are back in the crawl space. The cartons are still piled against the firestair entrance. Peter: IT ALL DEPENDS ON HOW MANY OF THEM ARE STILL INSIDE. THAT'S A LONG HAUL BETWEEN THOSE ENTRANCES. Steve: WELL IF WE CAN GET SOME MORE FLARES...OR MAYBE SOME OF THOSE PROPANE JOBS. Peter: THE GUNS ARE FIRST. GUNS AND AMMUNITION. 490 Roger moans with pain. Nearby, Fran is applying a dressing to his leg. The wound is wrapped with several layers of cloth. The first aid kit is open on the floor. Peter crouches near his friend. He takes over from Fran. He ties more strips tightly around the wound and around the upper thigh. Peter: YOU SURE YOU GONNA MAKE IT, BUDDY? Roger: JUST HURRY UP WITH THAT! 491 Again, the military music. A tall figure drops out of a ceiling grid and lands on the floor of the Sporting Goods Store. It is Peter. His rifle is slung and there is an empty pack on his back. Several of the Maintenance Room key rings are strapped into his belt. 492 Suddenly a Zombie charges across the room. The gate to the mall balcony is open on this store. Another creature, attracted by the commotion, starts through the open entrance arch. 493 Stephen is starting down through the ceiling grid. He also has equipment strapped onto his body. He sees the charging creature. Peter is trying to unsling his rifle. Stephen conquers his fear of the height, and lets himself fall to the floor. He crumples up when he hits, and rolls into a store exhibit, knocking things flying. Peter manages to level off his gun and shoots the rushing creature. Stephen regains his footing. The second creature is moving up the aisle. Stephen grabs a powerful crossbow from a nearby exhibit. It is loaded. It fires with a strumming sound and the small shaft rips cleanly through the creature's skull and imbeds itself in a wall beyond. The Zombie walks forward a few steps before it falls. 494 The men run toward the entrance arch. Leaping up on an adjacent counter top, Peter manages to reach the lip of the roll gate and he swings it down fast. Stephen catches the cage below and slams it into place just as another ghoul falls against it moaning and clawing. Stephen unslings his gun and is about to level it off on the creature outside. Peter jumps down from the counter. Peter: DON'T TRY TO SHOOT THROUGH THOSE GATES. OPENINGS ARE TOO SMALL. BULLET'LL WIND UP CHASIN' US AROUND IN HERE. The Zombie crashes all its might against the metal cage. Stephen startles. Peter: HE CAN'T GET THROUGH...COME ON... 495 The men crash back through the store and Peter moves right to the racks of weapons. He pulls down a gorgeous high powered rifle which is equipped with a sophisticated scope for sighting. Peter: AIN'T IT A CRIME! Steve: WHAT? Peter: (looking through the telescope) THE ONLY PERSON WHO COULD EVER MISS WITH THIS GUN...IS THE SUCKER WITH THE BREAD TO BUY IT. 496 The cross hairs of the telescope zero in on the enlarged forehead of the Zombie, which is thrashing against the roll gates. The sight gives up a sense of the super-weapon's lethal accuracy. 497 Stephen dives into the ammunition and moves behind the counter where he pulls out boxes of shiny new hand guns. Peter finds elaborate holsters and ammunition belts. He pulls several other rifles from the rack. We recognise the firepower in the arsenal that the two men accumulate. 498 Other Zombies appear at the gate, but they cannot break in. 499 Peter: (at the creatures) YOU JUST WAIT OUT THERE, SISSIES... WE COMIN'...AND WE READY! 500 With a swell in the music, the band of all four humans charges out of the Maintenance corridor and makes a break for the Department Store. They all wear new double holsters containing hand guns. Each has a rifle strapped over his shoulder and another in hand. They wear ammo belts and carry packs with other supplies. The wounded Roger is sitting in the big gardening cart which Peter earlier used to carry the first supply load out of the store. Peter runs, pushing the cart before him. There are only a few creatures on the balcony. The dead things turn in confusion at the sound of the attacking commandos. Roger, his hands free to shoot, fires his weapon several times at some of the creatures who are closest. 501 The creatures from the main concourse below begin to move up the stationary staircase and struggle with the escalators. The corpses of creatures slain in the earlier battles still clutters in the area. 502 Fran and Steve are the first to reach the entrance to the Department Store. Steve falls immediately on the gate locks. Peter pulls up to a screeching halt at the gate. He turns the cart in a full 180

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

annika

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

Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

underling

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

Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

mikael

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

Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

lisbeth

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

Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

distress

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Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 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 GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Written by Steven Zaillian 1 EXT. SWEDEN - DAY 1 A Christmas card vista is spoiled by a black line of railroad tracks stitched onto the snowy landscape like a scar pointing north to icy desolation. A phone rings - 2 EXT. CABIN - ESTABLISHING A2 2 INT. CABIN - LAKE SILJAN - DAY 2 An elderly man who lives alone in this rustic cabin - a retired policeman - regards the phone, both expecting and dreading the call. He picks up the receiver. MORELL What kind is it? VANGER O/S I don't know. White. MORELL And the frame? VANGER O/S Dark. MORELL Postmark? VANGER O/S Same as last time. MORELL No note. VANGER O/S No. 3 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - SAME TIME 3 Henrik Vanger - at 82, even older than Morell - listens to the silence from his end of the line in a wood-paneled room as baronial as the policeman's was spartan. VANGER I can't take it anymore. MORELL O/S I know. I'm sorry, Henrik. There's nothing more to say. Vanger sets the receiver down and regards a dried white flower in a 6" x 11" frame resting on the brown paper it was wrapped and mailed in. It's somehow ominous, like the dark storm clouds that now burst outside - 2. 2. 4 INT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 4 Mikael Blomkvist - 40's - regards the gauntlet of reporters he'll have to pass to get out of the building. As he strides toward them, microphones and cameras swing in his direction. Without stopping - BLOMKVIST What is this, the media event of the year? REPORTER 1 Don't try to play it down, Mikael, it won't work. BLOMKVIST Don't try to play it up, that won't either. 4A EXT. COURTHOUSE - STOCKHOLM - DAY - CONTINUOUS 4A Feeling a bit like he's fleeing the scene of a crime, which in a way he is, Blomkvist steps outside opening his umbrella. A couple of the reporters come out after him - REPORTER 2 Will you appeal? BLOMKVIST I'll appeal to you, Viggo: Find a real story to cover. He hurries off in the rain. NEWSCASTER V/O Financial journalist Mikael Blomkvist was found guilty today on 16 counts of aggravated libel against financier Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. 5 INT. CAFE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 5 At a table with a pre-made sandwich and cup of coffee, and a long court judgement, Blomkvist watches himself fleeing the reporters on the cafe's TV. He's the only one there who watches it - no one else is interested - which only makes it worse. 3. 3. TV NEWSCASTER In an article published earlier this year, Blomkvist claimed Wennerstrom - founder and president of The Wennerstrom Group - used State funds intended for industrial development in Poland for an arms deal with the right-wing Ustashe in Croatia. The report cuts to a shot of Wennerstrom outside the courthouse in an Armani suit, surrounded by his legal team, confidently addressing the reporters - WENNERSTROM ON TV I have nothing against Mr. Blomkvist. He's a good journalist who I don't believe is guided by malice. But what he wrote was inaccurate, and inaccuracies can't go unanswered. He - all journalists - have to accept like the rest of us, actions have consequences. Done with his sandwich, Blomkvist goes to the counter. BLOMKVIST Marlboro Red ... and a lighter. 6 EXT. CAFE - MOMENTS LATER - DAY 6 He comes out tamping the pack. Extracts a cigarette. Tosses the pack in a sidewalk trash bin. Flicks at the lighter but can't get it to fire in the wind and rain. Hunches his body around it, coaxes it to life. TV NEWSCASTER V/O Blomkvist was ordered to pay 600 thousand SKE in damages and all court costs, which could be significantly more. He takes a long drag that dizzies him. A wonderful feeling. He regards the trash bin. Fishes around it, finds the pack, puts it in his coat pocket. 7 EXT. MILLENNIUM OFFICES, STOCKHOLM - DAY - ESTABLISHING 7 8 INT. MILLENNIUM'S OFFICES - DAY 8 He comes through past Christmas decorations and a mostly- young staff. They try not to regard him as a dead-man- walking, but aren't entirely successful. He enters the editor's office. 4. 4. ERIKA Where you been? Erika Berger is about Blomkvist's age, and - like the IKEA furniture - sends a mixed message: a feminist in a mini-skirt. BLOMKVIST Walking. Thinking. ERIKA Smoking? BLOMKVIST Just one. He sits, exhausted and depressed, in a cheap Poang chair. ERIKA TV4 called. I told them no statement until we've read the judgment in its entirety. BLOMKVIST I have. Who else? ERIKA Everyone who's ever wanted to see you humiliated. BLOMKVIST You've been on the phone all day then. ERIKA I'm as much to blame for this as you. BLOMKVIST You are? You wrote it? ERIKA I read it. I ran it. BLOMKVIST Not the same. ERIKA Our credibility isn't dead, Mikael. BLOMKVIST Mine is. They regard each other in another silence. Then - 5. 5. BLOMKVIST I'm tired. I feel like climbing under a duvet and sleeping for a week. ERIKA Alone? He thinks about it ... shakes his head `no.' ERIKA I already called Greger and told him I wouldn't be home tonight. 9 EXT. STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 9 A motorcycle dives down a driveway that burrows under a three-story building. 10 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - MILTON SECURITY - DAY 10 Dragan Armansky, 40's, who looks more like a boss of a New Jersey crime family than CEO of a high-tech security firm, sits behind his desk, waiting with an older client. ARMANSKY It's possible we could wait forever. FRODE You called her, I thought. You spoke to her. ARMANSKY I'm afraid that doesn't mean much. FRODE I don't understand. ARMANSKY No one here likes her. So it's better if she works at home. FRODE But you told her I wanted to meet her. ARMANSKY But I've told her many more times I prefer her not to meet clients. 11 INT. MILTON SECURITY - SAME TIME - DAY 11 The figure from the motorcycle crosses the lobby. From behind we can't see him/her well, but can see wary looks from others emerging from and getting into the elevator. 6. 6. FRODE V/O But you like her. ARMANSKY V/O Very much. She's one of the best investigators I have. As you saw from her report - 12 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 12 The report on Armansky's desk is 200 pages long. INSERT: Printed on its cover: Mikael Blomkvist, a case number and, smaller, its author, Lisbeth Salander. FRODE But. ARMANSKY I'm concerned you won't like her. She's different. FRODE In what way. ARMANSKY In every way. 13 INT. MILTON SECURITY - STOCKHOLM - SAME TIME - DAY 13 The black-clad figure - from behind again - strides past coworkers who look away. 14 INT. ARMANSKY'S OFFICE - SAME TIME - CONTINUED 14 SECRETARY/INTERCOM Ms. Salander's here. Armansky breathes a defeated sigh, taps the intercom button twice to say `okay, let her in.' Lisbeth Salander walks in: A small, pale, anorexic- looking waif in her early 20's. Short black-dyed hair - pierced eyelid - tattoo of a wasp on her neck; probably several more under her black leather jacket - black t- shirt, black jeans, black Caterpillar boots. Frode is only middlingly successful in concealing his initial reaction to her. This isn't punk fashion. This is someone saying, Stay the fuck away from me. ARMANSKY Lisbeth, Mr. Dirch Frode. FRODE How do you do? 7. 7. She doesn't shake Frode's hand, but does address him: SALANDER Something wrong with the report? FRODE No. It seems quite thorough. There's a wealth of data here. But I'm also interested to know what's not in it. SALANDER There's nothing not in it. FRODE Your opinion of him isn't. SALANDER I'm not paid to give my opinion. FRODE So you don't have one? Salander sends Armansky a weary look. His look back begs her not to say anything unpleasant. Eventually - SALANDER He's clean. In my opinion. FRODE He's - excuse me? SALANDER He's honest. He's who he presents himself to be. In his business, that's an asset. FRODE There's less in his asset column after his conviction today. SALANDER That's true. He made a fool of himself with that. If it happened that way. Frode looks at Armansky. What's that supposed to mean? SALANDER If he made up the story, that's out of character. So is giving up without a fight. People don't do things that are out of character. FRODE Are you saying he was set up? 8. 8. SALANDER That wasn't part of my assignment. And, apparently, she has no opinion on it either. FRODE You're quite right he made a fool of himself professionally. How big of a fool did he make of himself financially? SALANDER The judgement will just about empty his savings. This seems to please Frode more than anything else that has been said, and Salander sees it. SALANDER May I go? FRODE Your report is light in another area. His personal life. Anything you chose not to include? SALANDER Nothing that warranted inclusion. FRODE I'm not sure if that means yes or no. ARMANSKY I think what Ms. Salander means, and I agree, is that everyone has a right to a certain amount of privacy, even when they're being investigated. FRODE Not in this case. I have to know if there's anything about him I might find unsavory - even if she doesn't. Armansky's look to her at once apologizes for Frode, and encourages her to speak. She finally relents but puts no more spin on it than any other piece of raw data - SALANDER He's had a long sexual relationship with his co-editor. It wrecked his marriage, but not hers. Her husband accepts it. Sometimes she sleeps at Blomkvist's, sometimes at home. Frode thinks about that, perhaps imagining how much simpler his own life would be with such an arrangement. 9. 9. FRODE You were right not to include that. SALANDER I know. FRODE Anything else? SALANDER No. FRODE Please think before you say no. SALANDER I did. FRODE I don't want to be surprised by something later. Salander offers nothing more. FRODE So. Nothing else. In the personal department. You're sure. SALANDER (pause) He likes sandwiches. A15 EXT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A15 15 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - NIGHT 15 Blomkvist isn't sentimental, but does have a few framed snapshots: his daughter, his sister, and one with Erika - in their 20's - in which he's wearing a black leather jacket. She wakes up alone in his bed. Pads to the darkened living room to find him typing on his laptop, a half- eaten sandwich and glass of water next to it. ERIKA Usually when I wake up in a cold bed, it's at home. BLOMKVIST Sorry. ERIKA What are you doing? 10. 10. BLOMKVIST Writing the press release. ERIKA Saying - BLOMKVIST You're taking over as publisher. You're sorry for any nuisance Wennerstrom was caused. I can't be reached for comment. ERIKA You're giving up. BLOMKVIST Just taking a few steps aside. For you. ERIKA This makes me sick. 16 OMIT: INT. BOOKSTORE - STOCKHOLM - DAY 16 17 INT. MCDONALD'S - STOCKHOLM - DAY 17 Salander sits alone at a table waiting for someone with a coffee and a gift haphazardly wrapped with a Christmas bow, the price tag still on it, a paperback book - My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer. She notices the price tag is still on it. Peels it off. Dials a call on her cell. Hangs up when it goes to voice mail. A18 EXT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A18 18 INT. PALMGREN'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 18 She knocks on a door. Hears classical music playing softly inside, but no one answers. She tries the door. It's unlocked. The gift in hand, she pushes it open. She comes into an apartment which looks like it could belong to a professor. Sees a chess piece on the floor. Then a trail of them that lead her to an overturned chess table and, next to it, a body. The gash on the old man's head could have been caused by a fall into the corner of the table, or from a blow to it. She quickly tries to determine if he's breathing. Calls for an ambulance. 19 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - EVENING 19 It's doubtful there's a stranger Christmas gathering going on anywhere in the world. Standing around with eggnog are: 11. 11. Blomkvist; his teenage daughter Pernilla; his sister Annika and her Italian husband; Erika and her weirdly understanding artist husband Greger, whose arm is around her waist; a few other friends (and perhaps lovers). GREGER You needed a better attorney. You needed your sister. BLOMKVIST She offered. ANNIKA He declined. BLOMKVIST As she hoped. ANNIKA Never a good idea mixing family and business. BLOMKVIST And I still would have lost. GREGOR Did you have ... anything on him. BLOMKVIST I had a lot. It just wasn't any good. ERIKA It wasn't even about Mikael. It was Wennerstrom sending a message to the press as a whole - and the FSA: Don't ask questions. Blomkvist's daughter seems concerned for him. BLOMKVIST I'm fine, Nilla. You don't have to worry about me. PERNILLA Mom's worried. BLOMKVIST About me? PERNILLA About all that money. 12. 12. 20 INT. SODER HOSPITAL - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 20 Outside the ICU, Salander sits on the floor like a dog who won't leave the spot its master told it to wait. For the first time since we've met her, she looks vulnerable. The doors swing open. A doctor steps out. Salander gets up to hear his report - DOCTOR You're Mr. Palmgren's daughter? SALANDER His ward. He doesn't have a daughter. The doctor isn't sure then if he should talk to her. SALANDER Please. 21 INT. ICU - SODER HOSPITAL - LATER - NIGHT 21 Not allowed to go inside, she peers through glass at Palmgren, who is unaware of her, or the nurse attending him, or even himself. A spiderweb of tubes emerge from his neck and wrists; oxygen tubes from his nostrils. DOCTOR V/O He's had severe cerebral hemorrhaging. Either from the fall itself, or a stroke that led to the fall. His blood pressure is still high. I'm hopeful he'll regain consciousness, but that's not assured. And it's possible, if he does, there will be neurological damage. 22 OMIT: INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 22 23 INT. BLOMKVIST'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - NIGHT 23 They're around the dinner table now, passing platters around. Blomkvist notices his daughter's head is bowed in silent prayer. BLOMKVIST Nilla? What are you doing? PERNILLA Nothing. BLOMKVIST (pause) You're not serious. 13. 13. Dragon Tattoo Final 9/1/11 SZ PERNILLA I don't want to talk about it since I know you won't approve. BLOMKVIST Of - (she doesn't say) Nilla. PERNILLA Light of Life. BLOMKVIST Light of - what? (she doesn't repeat it) What is that? PERNILLA You think it's all senseless but it isn't. It's more natural to believe in something than not to. She begins eating. Blomkvist stares at her, feeling a little sick. A cell phone rings. No one can tell - as you never can - whose it is, and so all pull them out. It's Blomkvist's. BLOMKVIST Excuse me. Looking back at his daughter with some concern, he steps away to take the call. BLOMKVIST Hello. FRODE O/S Mr. Blomkvist? BLOMKVIST Yes. FRODE O/S Forgive me for intruding on your Christmas. My name is Dirch Frode. I'm an attorney. I represent Henrik Vanger. Perhaps you've heard of (him) - BLOMKVIST Of course. FRODE O/S He'd like to speak to you about a private matter. 14. 14. BLOMKVIST You know, you're calling at an awkward time. FRODE O/S I'm sorry. I'm about to sit down to Christmas dinner myself. BLOMKVIST That's not what I mean. FRODE O/S You're referring to your recent legal trouble. That has provided Mr. Vanger with some entertainment. BLOMKVIST Excuse me? FRODE O/S He doesn't care for Wennerstrom either. Frode, in his polite, deliberate way, is reeling Blomkvist in like a perch. BLOMKVIST Have him call me. FRODE O/S He'd like to meet in person if that's okay. Up north. Hedestad. BLOMKVIST No. Sorry. FRODE O/S He's much too old to make a trip to Stockholm, Mr. Blomkvist. Please. If you'd be so kind as to consider. Blomkvist isn't sure what to do, or say. FRODE O/S Hedestad is lovely in winter. Like a Christmas card. 23A INT. METRO - MOVING - STOCKHOLM - MORNING 23A Salander rides a crowded underground train, but feels even more cut off from the people around her than usual; completely alone. 15. 15. 24 EXT. NORRLAND COAST - DAY 24 A passenger train, barely visible in a severe snowstorm, makes its way north. This is no Christmas card. 24A INT. SJ TRAIN - MOVING - DAY 24A Blomkvist stares out at the bleak, northern landscape. 25 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DAY 25 Blomkivist disembarks to find Frode - who he can only assume is Frode - beyond a veil of snow, waving to him from outside a Mercedes. Unlike Blomkvist, he's dressed for this God-awful weather in a fur-collared topcoat. 26 INT/EXT. MERCEDES / HEDESTAD - DAY 26 Frode's Mercedes comes across a long bridge linking the old industrial town to a rocky island. FRODE First time in Hedestad? BLOMKVIST And last, I'm sure. FRODE It's lovely in the spring. BLOMKVIST You said it was lovely in winter. FRODE This is unseasonable. BLOMKVIST I'll be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. FRODE Unless we get snowed in ... I'm joking. You'll be home tonight, if that's what you wish. 27 INT/EXT. MERCEDES - HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY 27 The car comes up a long, bare-tree-lined drive, leading to a stately manor. As Frode and Blomkvist climb out, a distant gunshot echoes, but neither Frode nor the old man who appears at the front door of the manor pays it any attention; just someone hunting. VANGER Welcome. Come inside. It's warm. 16. 16. 28 INT. VANGER MANOR - DAY 28 It is warm inside. There are fires in the fireplaces. And Vanger himself is warm in nature, yet speaks quickly as they come through the house - VANGER Thank you for coming way out here. Anna, take Mr. Blomkvist's insufficient coat. Would you like to freshen up? We'll be having dinner later. For now, hot tea is waiting. Unless you'd like a drink instead. What would you like? FRODE Mr. Blomkvist would like to be on the 4:30 train back to Stockholm. VANGER What? BLOMKVIST I can't stay for dinner. Vanger looks thoroughly disappointed. Or hurt. VANGER Oh. I guess I'd better be quick then. Thank you, Dirch. Mikael, this way. 29 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 29 Tea service and pastries on a coffee table separate Blomkvist from Vanger, whose elderly frame is in danger of being swallowed up by a wing-back chair. VANGER What do you know about me? BLOMKVIST That you used to run one of the biggest industrial firms in the country. VANGER Used to. That's correct. There are framed black and white photographs on a wall - factories and trains figuring into all of them. 17. 17. VANGER My grandfather forged the tracks the 4:30 train will take you home on - and most of the other pre-state-owned rail lines. We stitched this country together. We made the steel and milled the lumber that built modern Sweden. (pause) You know what our most profitable product now is? (Blomkvist doesn't) Fertilizer. Blomkvist imagines he's meant to offer a wistful shrug. VANGER I'm not obsessed with the declining health of the company, but I am with the settling of accounts - and the clock is ticking. I need your help. BLOMKVIST Doing. VANGER Officially, assisting me with my memoirs. But what you'd really be doing is solving a mystery. And you'd do that by doing what you do so well - this recent legal mishap of yours notwithstanding. You'd be investigating thieves, misers, bullies, and malcontents - the most detestable collection of people you'll ever meet ... my family. A30 EXT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - ESTABLISHING A30 30 INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - DAY 30 She exhumes an unwashed bowl from a sinkful of dirty dishes, fills it with tap water without rinsing it, dumps a packet of ramen noodles in, puts it in a microwave. She takes a Coke can from an anemically-stocked fridge to a desk in her so-called living room, a clutter of full ashtrays, fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, paperwork, unwashed laundry. The only things of any value here are her MacBook and several external hard drives. NOTE: Changes below are INSERTS only: 18. 18. She types Dirch Frode in the search window. Clicks on the top result which takes her to Frode's bio on Vanger Industries' site with its distinctive V.I. logo. His official company photo accompanies his profile: Uppsala University Law School ... Assistant Counsel, Vanger Industries, 1965-1972 ... Head Counsel, 1972- present. She types in another search - Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Clicks on his Wikipedia page, which shows a photo of him alongside his bio. She skims it - President of the investment firm, Wennerstrom-gruppen ... personal wealth of 12 billion dollars (80 billion kronor) ... 82-foot yacht, villa on the island of Varmdo ... She does a third search, types: Wennerstrom+Vanger Industries - and hits the `cached' option - There are only a couple of results that include both terms. She goes to one of them, a body of text of some old page with the cached terms highlighted in yellow and blue, and reads - ... Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, CPA, Vanger Industries Accounting Dept., 1971-1972 ... Hmmm. 31 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1960 31 The children of the "thieves, misers, bullies and incompetents" play on a beach. A shutter blinks freezing a 12-year-old girl in foreground in black and white - VANGER V/O This is Harriet. The granddaughter of my brother Richard. 32 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DAY 32 The same photograph of Harriet in a photo album Vanger shows Blomkvist. VANGER Richard, who I may as well start with to get it out of the way, was a Nazi of the first order - joining the Nationalist Socialist Freedom League when he was 17. 19. 19. A page in the album turns to reveal a photo of a young man in a uniform with a Nazi pin. VANGER Isn't it interesting how fascists always steal the word freedom. (Blomkvist checks his watch) The 4:30. Yes. Okay. Anyway, Richard died a martyr to the Nazi cause in 1940 - missed all the real excitement - but not the opportunity to regularly beat his wife Margareta and their son, Gottfried. We see photos of Gottfried, a handsome young man. VANGER Now, Gottfried - Harriet's father - was what people used to call a Good- Time-Charlie. BLOMKVIST They're still called that. VANGER Are they? Okay. INSERT: Close on a photo of Gottfried. VANGER He was a charmer, a ladies man, a drunk. In other words, a born salesman - which is what he did for the company - traveling around, taking clients out to dinner and so on. BLOMKVIST Someone has to do it. VANGER That's right. Anyway, he died in 1965. Drowned. Drunk. Here on the island. A studio photo: Gottfried with his wife and two children. VANGER His wife Isabella - who was pretty much useless before as a parent - became even more so after his death - which is when I began looking after their children - Martin - who runs Vanger Industries now that I'm retired - and Harriet. 20. 20. A photo of a much younger Vanger and 15-year-old Harriet. VANGER She was bright and curious, a winning combination in any person. BLOMKVIST And beautiful. Vanger nods as he regards the photo ... BLOMKVIST Something happened to her? Vanger nods again; is silent for several moments ... VANGER Someone in the family murdered Harriet and for the last forty years has been trying to drive me insane. 33 OMIT: INT. SALANDER'S APARTMENT - STOCKHOLM - DAY 33 34 EXT. TRAIN STATION - HEDESTAD - DUSK 34 The 4:30 train leaves the station without Blomkvist. 35 INT. VANGER'S STUDY - DUSK 35 Anna gathers the cups and leaves with the tea tray. VANGER It was September 21st, 1966. A Saturday. Harriet was 16. 36 EXT. VANGER ESTATE - DAY - 1966 36 Three generations of Vangers dot the grounds. VANGER V/O My brothers - along with their wives, children and grandchildren - had gathered here for our loathsome annual board meeting and dinner. It was also the day the Yacht Club held its Autumn parade. 37 EXT. HEDESTAD - DAY - 1966 37 And we see the parade, and, among the spectators lining the town's main street, Harriet with other teenage girls. 21. 21. VANGER V/O Harriet and a couple of school friends had gone into town to watch it. She returned a little after two o'clock. 38 INT. VANGER'S PARLOR - DAY - 1966 38 A clock in the room reads, 2:10. Vanger and a few family members sip afternoon cocktails. Harriet appears. VANGER V/O She came to the parlor. She asked if she could talk to me. I honestly don't remember what I was doing that I thought was more important, but I told her to give me a few minutes. She leaves. He returns to the others in the room. VANGER V/O But in a few minutes, before I could go upstairs to talk to her, something else occurred. 39 EXT. HEDEBY ISLAND - DAY - 1966 39 A car and a fuel truck, both going too fast, collide on the bridge. The truck rolls onto its side crushing the car and spewing gasoline. VANGER V/O The accident had nothing to do with Harriet - and everything. 40 INT. VANGER'S FAMILY ROOM - DAY - 1966 40 Vanger and the others react to the noise of the crash. Out the large window they can see the bridge and many of those on the grounds trotting down to get a closer look. VANGER V/O It was chaos as everyone dropped what they were doing. 41 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DAY - 1966 41 People and vehicles converge on both sides of the bridge. VANGER V/O Police, an ambulance, fire brigade, reporter, photographer and onlookers quickly arrived from town, as those of us on the island - the family - hurried to the bridge from our side. 22. 22. The truck driver has managed to climb out of his cab, but the other motorist is trapped. VANGER V/O The driver of the car - a Mr. Aronsson - was pinned and severely injured. All we could do was try to pry him out with our hands - since metal tools could spark. A local newspaper photographer and another man, snap pictures as Vanger and others try without success to pry the injured driver from his car. As the chaos ensues - VANGER V/O About twenty minutes after the crash, Harriet was in the kitchen. Anna herself saw her. 42 INT. KITCHEN - VANGER MANOR - DAY - 1966 42 Anna glances to Harriet as she comes in, then back out the window to the bridge. Harriet passes a clock that reads 2:35, steps outside, walks toward the woods ... 43 EXT. THE BRIDGE - DUSK - 1966 43 As the sun sets, Vanger and the others on the bridge make progress extracting the driver from the car. A young man coming from the town side takes off his jacket to help. VANGER V/O We finally got poor Aronsson out of his car and off to the hospital, and those of us on our side drifted back to the house. 44 INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT - 1966 44 The family has assembled at a long dining table. VANGER V/O The sun was down, the excitement over, we sat down to dinner. That's when I noticed Harriet wasn't there. Vanger considers an empty chair as everyone else, including the young man from the bridge, his jacket draped on his chair, passes platters of food around. VANGER V/O And she wasn't there the next morning. Or the next. Or the next forty years. 44A OMIT: INT. VANGER MANOR - NIGHT 44A 23. 23. 45 INT. VANGER'S MANOR - DUSK - PRESENT DAY 45 Vanger has the same look of concern on his face now as he leads Blomkvist up some stairs. VANGER What was she going to tell me? Why didn't I make time for her? Why didn't I listen? BLOMKVIST She couldn't have run away? VANGER Not without being seen. 45A EXT. THE BRIDGE

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

scowling

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

Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

deliberate

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

Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

jogging

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

Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

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Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

nemesh

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

Good Will Hunting 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 if (window!= top) top.location.href=location.href // --> GOOD WILL HUNTING "GOOD WILL HUNTING" by Matt Damon & Ben Affleck FADE IN: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE -- DAY CUT TO: INT. L STREET BAR & GRILLE, SOUTH BOSTON -- EVENING The bar is dirty, more than a little run down. If there is ever a cook on duty, he's not here now. As we pan across several empty tables, we can almost smell the odor of last nights beer and crushed pretzels on the floor. CHUCKIE Oh my God, I got the most fucked up thing I been meanin' to tell you. As the camera rises, we find FOUR YOUNG MEN seated around a table near the back of the bar. ALL Oh Jesus. Here we go. The guy holding court is CHUCKIE SULLIVAN, 20, and the largest of the bunch. He is loud, boisterous, a born entertainer. Next to him is WILL HUNTING, 20, handsome and confident, a softspoken leader. On Will's right sits BILLY MCBRIDE, 22, heavy, quiet, someone you definitely wouldn't want to tangle with. Finally there is MORGAN O'MALLY, 19, smaller than the other guys. Wiry and anxious, Morgan listens to Chuckie's horror stories with eager disgust. All four boys speak with thick Boston accents. This is a rough, working class Irish neighborhood and these boys are its product. CHUCKIE You guys know my cousin Mikey Sullivan? ALL Yeah. CHUCKIE Well you know how he loves animals right? Anyway, last week he's drivin' home... (laughs) ALL What? Come on! CHUCKIE (trying not to laugh) I'm sorry, 'cause you know Mikey, the fuckin guy loves animals, and this is the last person you'd want this to happen to. WILL Chuckie, what the fuck happened? CHUCKIE Okay. He's driving along and this fuckin' cat jumps in front of his car, and so he hits this cat-- Chuckie is really laughing now. MORGAN --That isn't funny-- CHUCKIE --and he's like "shit! Motherfucker!" And he looks in his rearview and sees this cat -- I'm sorry-- BILLY Fuckin' Chuckie! CHUCKIE So he sees this cat tryin to make it across the street and it's not lookin' so good. WILL It's walkin' pretty slow at this point. MORGAN You guys are fuckin' sick. CHUCKIE So Mikey's like "Fuck, I gotta put this thing out of its misery"--So he gets a hammer-- WILL/MORGAN/BILLY OH! CHUCKIE out of his tool box, and starts chasin' the cat and starts whackin' it with the hammer. You know, tryin' to put the thing out of its misery. MORGAN Jesus. CHUCKIE And all the time he's apologizin' to the cat, goin' "I'm sorry." BANG, "I'm sorry." BANG! BILLY Like it can understand. CHUCKIE And this Samoan guy comes runnin' out of his house and he's like "What the fuck are you doing to my cat?!" Mikey's like "I'm sorry" --BANG--" I hit your cat with my truck, and I'm just trying to put it out of it's misery" -- BANG! And the cat dies. So Mikey's like "Why don't you come look at the front of the truck." 'Cause the other guy's all fuckin flipped out about-- WILL Watching his cat get brained. Morgan gives Will a look, but Will only smiles. CHUCKIE Yeah, so he's like "Check the front of my truck, I can prove I hit it 'cause there's probably some blood or something"-- WILL --or a tail-- MORGAN WILL! CHUCKIE And so they go around to the front of his truck... and there's another cat on the grille. WILL/MORGAN/BILLY No! Ugh! CHUCKIE Is that unbelievable? He brained an innocent cat! BLACKOUT: The opening credits roll over a series of shots of the city and the real people who live and work there, going about their daily lives. We see a panoramic view of South Boston. Will sits in his apartment, walls completely bare. A bed, a small night table and an empty basket adorn the room. A stack of twenty or so LIBRARY BOOKS sit by his bed. He is flipping through a book at about a page a second. Chuckie stands on the porch to Will's house. His Cadillac idles by the curb. Will comes out and they get in the car. We travel across crowded public housing and onto downtown. Finally, we gaze across the river and onto the great cementdomed buildings that make up the M.I.T. campus. CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- DAY The classroom is packed with graduate students and TOM. PROFESSOR LAMBEAU (52) is at the lectern. The chalkboard behind him is covered with theorems. LAMBEAU Please finish McKinley by next month. Many of you probably had this as undergraduates in real analysis. It won't hurt to brush up. I am also putting an advanced fourier system on the main hallway chalkboard-- Everyone groans. LAMBEAU I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester. The first person to do so will not only be in my good graces, but go on to fame and fortune by having their accomplishment recorded and their name printed in the auspicious "M.I.T. Tech." Prof. Lambeau holds up a thin publication entitled "M.I.T. Tech." Everyone laughs. LAMBEAU Former winners include Nobel Laureates, world renowned astro- physicists, Field's Medal winners and lowly M.I.T. professors. More laughs. LAMBEAU Okay. That is all. A smattering of applause. Students pack their bags. CUT TO: INT. FUNLAND LATER The place is a monster indoor funpark. Will, Chuckie, Morgan, and Billy are in adjoining batting cages. Will has disabled the pitching machine in his and pitches to Chuckie. The boys have been drinking. Will throws one to Chuckie, high and tight. Several empty beer cans sit by the cage. CHUCKIE Will! Another pitch, inside. CHUCKIE You're gonna get charged! WILL You think I'm afraid of you, you big fuck? You're crowdin' the plate. Will guns another one, way inside. CHUCKIE Stop brushin' me back! WILL Stop crowdin the plate! Chuckie laughs and steps back. CHUCKIE Casey's bouncin' at a bar up Harvard. We should go there sometime. WILL What are we gonna do up there? CHUCKIE I don't know, we'll fuck up some smart kids. (stepping back in) You'd prob'ly fit right in. WILL Fuck you. Will fires a pitch at Chuckie's head. Chuckie dives to avoid being hit. He gets up and whips his batting helmet at Will. CUT TO: EXT. SOUTH BOSTON ROOFTOP -- EARLY AFTERNOON SEAN McGUIRE (52) sits, FORMALLY DRESSED, on the roof of his apartment building in a beat-up lawn chair. Well-built and fairly muscular, he stares blankly out over the city. On his lap rests an open invitation that reads "M.I.T. CLASS OF '67 REUNION." While the morning is quiet and Sean sits serenely, there is a look about his that tells us he has faced hard times. This is a man who fought his way through life. On his lonely stare we: CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS LAWN -- DAY A thirty year REUNION PARTY has taken over the lawn. A well dressed throng mill about underneath a large banner that reads "WELCOME BACK CLASS OF '72." We find Professor Lambeau standing with a drink in his hand, surveying the crowd. He is interrupted by an approaching STUDENT. STUDENT Excuse me, Professor Lambeau? LAMBEAU Yes. STUDENT I'm in your applied theories class. We're all down at the Math and Science building. LAMBEAU It's Saturday. STUDENT I know. We just couldn't wait 'till Monday to find out. LAMBEAU Find out what? STUDENT Who proved the theorem. EXT. TOM FOLEY PARK, S. BOSTON -- AFTERNOON In the bleachers of the visiting section we find our boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes. Will pops open a beer. The boys have been here a while and it shows. Billy sees something that catches his interest. BILLY Who's that? She's got a nice ass. Their P.O.V. reveals a girl in stretch pants talking to a beefy looking ITALIAN GUY (BOBBY CHAMPA) MORGAN Yah, that is a nice ass. CHUCKIE You could put a pool in that backyard. BILLY Who's she talking to? MORGAN That fuckin' guinea, Will knows him. WILL Yah, Bobby Champa. He used to beat the shit outta' me in Kindergarten. BILLY He's a pretty big kid. WILL Yah, he's the same size now as he was in Kindergarten. MORGAN Fuck this, let's get something to eat... CHUCKIE What Morgan, you're not gonna go talk to her? MORGAN Fuck her. The boys get up and walk down the bleachers. WILL I could go for a Whopper. MORGAN (nonchalant) Let's hit "Kelly's." CHUCKIE Morgan, I'm not goin' to "Kelly's Roast Beef" just cause you like the take-out girl. It's fifteen minutes out of our way. MORGAN What else we gonna do we can't spare fifteen minutes? CHUCKIE All right Morgan, fine. I'll tell you why we're not going to "Kelly's." It's because the take-out bitch is a fuckin' idiot. I'm sorry you like her but she's dumb as a post and she has never got our order right, never once. MORGAN She's not stupid. WILL She's sharp as a marble. CHUCKIE We're not goin'. (beat) I don't even like "Kelly's." CUT TO: INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- LATER Lambeau, still in his reunion formal-wear, strides down the hallway, carrying some papers. A group of students have gathered by the chalkboard. They part like the red sea as he approaches the board. Using the papers in hand, he checks the proof. Satisfied, he turns to the class. LAMBEAU This is correct? Who did this? Dead silence. Lambeau turns to an INDIAN STUDENT. LAMBEAU Nemesh? Nemesh shakes his head in awe. NEMESH No way. Lambeau erases the proof and starts putting up a new one. LAMBEAU Well, whoever You are, I'm sure you'll find this one challenging enough to merit coming forward with your identity. That is, if you can do it. INT. CHUCKIE'S CAR, DRIVING IN SOUTH BOSTON -- CONTINUOUS The street is crowded as our boys drive down Broadway. They move slowly through heavy traffic, windows down. Chuckie sorts through a large "KELLY'S ROAST BEEF" BAG as he drives. MORGAN Double Burger. Will holds the wheel for Chuckie as he looks through the bag. MORGAN (same tone) Double Burger. Chuckie gets out fries for himself, hands Will his fries. MORGAN I, I had a Kelly's Double Burger. CHUCKIE Would you shut the fuck up! I know what you ordered, I was there! MORGAN So why don't you give me my sandwich? CHUCKIE What do you mean "your sandwich?" I bought it. MORGAN (sarcastic) Yah, all right... CHUCKIE How much money you got? MORGAN I told you, I just got change. CHUCKIE Well give me your fuckin' change and we'll put your fuckin' sandwich on layaway. MORGAN Why you gotta be an asshole Chuckie? CHUCKIE I think you should establish a good line of credit. Laughter, Chuckie goes back searching through the bag. CHUCKIE Oh motherfucker... WILL She didn't do it again did she? CHUCKIE Jesus Christ. Not even close. MORGAN Did she get my Double Burger? CHUCKIE NO SHE DIDN'T GET YOUR DOUBLE BURGER!! IT'S ALL FUCKIN' FLYIN' FISH FILET!! Chuckie whips a FISH SANDWICH back to Morgan, then to Billy. WILL Jesus, that's really bad, did anyone even order a Flyin' Fish? CHUCKIE No, and we got four of 'em. BILLY You gotta' be kiddin' me. Why do we even go to her? CHUCKIE Cause fuckin' Morgan's got a crush on her, we always go there and when we get to the window he never says a fuckin' word to her, he never even gets out of the car, and she never gets our order right cause she's the goddamn MISSING LINK! WILL Well, she out did herself today... MORGAN I don't got a crush on her. Push in on Will who sees something O.S. Will's P.O.V. reveals BOBBY CHAMPA and his friends walking down the street. One of them casually lobs a bottle into a wire garbage can. It SHATTERS and some of the glass hits a FEMALE PASSERBY who, although unhurt, is upset. CHUCKIE What do we got? WILL I don't know yet. Will's P.O.V.: The woman says something to Bobby. He says something back. By the look on her face, it was something unpleasant. MORGAN Come on, Will... CHUCKIE Shut up. MORGAN No, why didn't you fight him at the park if you wanted to? I'm not goin' now, I'm eatin' my snack. WILL (smiles) So don't go. Will is out of the door, jogging toward Bobby Champa. Billy gets out, following Will with a look of casual indifference. CHUCKIE Morgan, Let's go. MORGAN I'm serious Chuckie, I ain't goin'. Leaving the car, Chuckie opens his door to follow. CHUCKIE (spins in his seat) You're goin'. And if you're not out there in two fuckin' seconds, when I'm done with them you're next! And with that, Chuckie is out the door. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK --CONTINUOUS Will comes jogging up towards BOBBY CHAMPA, calling out from across the street, WILL (smiling, good naturedly) Hey, Bobby Champa! I went to Kindergarten with you right? Sister Margaret's class... Bobby is bewildered by this strange interruption and unsure of Will's intentions. Just when it looks as though Bobby might remember him, Will DRILLS HIM with a sucker-punch which begins the FIGHT SEQUENCE: 40 FRAMES OVER M. GAYE'S "LET'S GET IT ON." Will's momentum and respectable strength serve to knock the hapless Champa out cold. As soon as Will hits Bobby, his friends CONVERGE ON WILL. Billy JUMPS IN and wrestles one guy to the ground. The two exchange messy punches on the sidewalk. Will is in trouble, back pedaling, dodging punches, trying to avoid being overrun. When Will goes for one guy, another has an open shot and he HAMMERS WILL with a right hand to the head. Will is staggered and bleary, as a second guy winds up for a shot he is BLIND SIDED by Chuckie who hits the kid like he was a tackling sled, lifting him off the ground. Chuckie turns to see Will still outnumbered. It's all Will can do to stay standing as Morgan DROP KICKS one of Champa's boys from the hood of a car. Contrary to what we might think, Morgan is actually quite a fighter. He peppers the kid with a flurry of blows. The fight is messy, ugly and chaotic. Most punches are thrown wildly and miss, heads are banged against concrete, someone throws a bottle. In the end, it's our guys who are left standing, while Bobby's friends stagger off. Chuckie and Morgan turn to see Will, standing over the unconscious Bobby Champa, still POUNDING him. ANGLE ON WILL: SAVAGE, UGLY, VICIOUS, AND VIOLENT Whatever demons must be raging inside Will, he is taking them out on Bobby Champa. He pummels the helpless, unconscious Champa, fury in his eyes. Chuckie and Billy pull Will away. The POLICE finally arrive on the scene and having only witnessed Will's vicious attack on Champa, they grab him. EXT. SIDEWALK (FULL SPEED) -- CONTINUOUS A crowd of onlookers have gathered. Chuckie addresses them. CHUCKIE Hey, thanks for comin' out. WILL Yeah, you're all invited over to Morgan's house for a complementary fish sandwich. The Police slam Will into the hood of a car. WILL (to Police) Hey, I know it's not a French cruller, but it's free. The cop holding Will SLAMS his [Will's] face into the hood, another cop uses a baton to press Will's face into the car. The look of rage returns to Will's eye. WILL Get the fuck off me! Will resists. Another cop comes over. Will KICKS HIM IN THE KNEE, dropping the cop. Momentarily freed, Will engages in a fracas with three cops. More converge on Will, who -- though he struggles -- takes a beating. CUT TO: EXT. SEAN'S ROOF -- NIGHT Sean sits, exactly as we first saw him, except his tie is now loose and an empty bottle of BUSHMILLS is at his side. He stares out over the City. A MATRONLY LANDLADY comes out of a doorway on the roof. LANDLADY Sean? Sean doesn't answer. LANDLADY Sean? You okay? SEAN Yeah. A beat. LANDLADY It's getting cold. After a moment, she retreats back down the stairs. Sean doesn't move. DISSOLVE: EXT. CHARLES RIVER, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING The morning sun reflects brilliantly off the river. CUT TO: EXT. COURTHOUSE -- NEXT MORNING Will emerges from the courthouse. Chuckie is waiting for him in the Cadillac with two cups of DUNKIN' DOUGHNUTS coffee. He hands one of them to Will. This feels routine. CHUCKIE When's the arraignment? WILL Next week. Chuckie pulls away. CUT TO: EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS, ESTABLISHING SHOT -- MORNING Students walk to class, carrying bags. More than any other, students seem to be heading into one PARTICULAR CLASSROOM. INT. M.I.T. CLASSROOM -- MORNING The classroom is even more crowded than last we saw it. Tom takes notes as Lambeau plays along with the excited environment with mock pomposity and good humor. LAMBEAU Is it my imagination, or has my class grown considerably? Laughter. LAMBEAU I look around and see young people who are my students, young people who are not my students as well as some of my colleagues. And by no stretch of my imagination do I think you've all come to hear me lecture. More laughter. LAMBEAU But rather to ascertain the identity of who our esteemed "The Tech" has come to call "The Mystery Math Magician." He holds up the M.I.T. Tech featuring a silhouetted figure, emblazoned with a large, white question mark. The headline reads "Mystery Math Magician strikes again." LAMBEAU Whoever you are, you've solved four of the most difficult theorems I've ever given a class. So without further ado, come forward silent rogue, and receive thy prize. The class waits in breathless anticipation. A STUDENT shifts his weight in his chair, making a noise. LAMBEAU Well, I'm sorry to disappoint my spectators, but it appears there will be no unmasking here today. I'm going to have to ask those of you not enrolled in the class to make your escape now or, for the next three hours be subjected to the mundities of eigenvectors. People start to gather their things and go. Lambeau picks up a piece of chalk and starts writing on the board. LAMBEAU However, my colleagues and I have conferred. There is a problem on the board, right now, that took us two years to prove. So let this be said; the gauntlet has been thrown down. But the faculty have answered the challenge and answered with vigor. CUT TO: OMITTED INT. M.I.T. HALLWAY -- NIGHT Lambeau comes out of his office with Tom and locks the door. As he turns to walk down the hallway, he stops. A faint TICKING SOUND can be heard. He turns and walks down the hall. Lambeau and Tom come around a corner. His P.O.V. reveals a figure in silhouette blazing through the proof on the chalkboard. There is a mop and a bucket beside him. As Lambeau draws closer, reveal that the figure is Will, in his janitor's uniform. There is a look of intense concentration in his eyes. LAMBEAU Excuse me! Will looks up, immediately starts to shuffle off. WILL Oh, I'm sorry. LAMBEAU What're you doing? WILL (walking away) I'm sorry. Lambeau follows Will down the hall. LAMBEAU What's your name? (beat) Don't you walk away from me. This is people's work, you can't graffiti here. WILL Hey fuck you. LAMBEAU (flustered) Well... I'll be speaking to your supervisor. Will walks out. Lambeau goes to "fix" the proof, scanning the blackboard for whatever damage Will caused. He stops, scans the board again. Amazement registers on his face. LAMBEAU My God. Down the hall, we hear the DOOR CLOSE. He turns to look for Will, who is gone. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW PUB, CAMBRIDGE -- THAT NIGHT A crowded Harvard Bar. Will and our gang walk by a line of several Harvard students, waiting to be carded. MORGAN What happened? (beat) You got fired, huh? WILL Yeah, Morgan. I got fired. MORGAN (starts laughing) How fuckin' retarded do you have to be to get shit-canned from that job? How hard is it to push a fuckin' broom? CHUCKIE You got fired from pushing a broom, you little bitch. MORGAN Yah, that was different. Management was restructurin'-- BILLY Yah, restructurin' the amount of retards they had workin' for them. MORGAN Fuck you, you fat fuck. BILLY Least I work for a livin'. (to Will) Why'd you get fired? WILL Management was restructurin'. Laughter. CHUCKIE My uncle can probably get you on my demo team. MORGAN What the fuck? I just asked you for a job yesterday! CHUCKIE I told you "no" yesterday! After two students flash their ID's to the doorman (CASEY) our boys file past him. ALL (one after another) What's up Case. With an imperceptible nod, Casey waves our boys through. A fifth kid, a HARVARD STUDENT, tries to follow. He is stopped by Casey's massive, outstretched arm: CASEY ID? INT. BOW AND ARROW -- CONTINUOUS Chuckie is collecting money from the guys to buy a pitcher, all but Morgan cough up some crumpled dollars. CHUCKIE So, this is a Harvard bar, huh? I thought there'd be equations and shit on the wall. INT. BACK SECTION, BOW AND ARROW -- MOMENTS LATER Chuckie returns to a table where Will, Morgan and Billy have made themselves comfortable. He [Chuckie] spots two ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HARVARD WOMEN sitting together at the end of the bar. Chuckie struts his way toward the women and pulls up a chair. He flashes a smile and tries to submerge his thick Boston accent. CHUCKIE Hey, how's it goin'? LYDIA Fine. SKYLAR Okay. CHUCKIE So, you ladies ah, go to school here? LYDIA Yes. CHUCKIE Yeah, cause I think I had a class with you. At this point, several interested parties materialize. Morgan Billy and Will try, as inconspicuously as possible, to situate themselves within listening distance. A rather large student in a HARVARD LACROSSE sweatshirt, CLARK (22) notices Chuckie. He [Clark] walks over to Skylar and Lydia, nobly hovering over them as protector. This gets Will, Morgan, and Billy's attention. SKYLAR What class? CHUCKIE Ah, history I think. SKYLAR Oh... CHUCKIE Yah, it's not a bad school... At this point, Clark can't resist and steps in. CLARK What class did you say that was? CHUCKIE History. CLARK How'd you like that course? CHUCKIE Good, it was all right. CLARK History? Just "history?" It must have been a survey course then. Chuckie nods. Clark notices Chuckie's clothes. Will and Billy exchange a look and move subtly closer. CLARK Pretty broad. "History of the World?" CHUCKIE Hey, come on pal we're in classes all day. That's one thing about Harvard never seizes to amaze me, everybody's talkin' about school all the time. CLARK Hey, I'm the last guy to want to talk about school at the bar. But as long as you're here I want to "seize" the opportunity to ask you a question. Billy shifts his beer into his left hand. Will and Morgan see this. Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say "not again..." CLARK Oh, I'm sure you covered it in your history class. Clark looks to see if the girls are impressed. They are not. When Clark looks back to Chuckie, Skylar turns to Lydia and rolls her [own] eyes. They laugh. Will sees this and smiles. CHUCKIE To tell you the truth, I wasn't there much. The class was rather elementary. CLARK Elementary? Oh, I don't doubt that it was. I remember the class, it was just between recess and lunch. Will and Billy come forward, stand behind Chuckie. CHUCKIE All right, are we gonna have a problem? CLARK There's no problem. I was just hoping you could give me some insight into the evolution of the market economy in the early colonies. My contention is that prior to the Revolutionary War the economic modalities especially of the southern colonies could most aptly be characterized as agrarian precapitalist and... Will, who at this point has migrated to Chuckie's side and is completely fed-up, includes himself in the conversation. WILL Of course that's your contention. You're a first year grad student. You just finished some Marxian historian, Pete Garrison prob'ly, and so naturally that's what you believe until next month when you get to James Lemon and get convinced that Virginia and Pennsylvania were strongly entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last until sometime in your second year, then you'll be in here regurgitating Gordon Wood about the Pre-revolutionary utopia and the capital-forming effects of military mobilization. CLARK (taken aback) Well, as a matter of fact, I won't, because Wood drastically underestimates the impact of-- WILL "Wood drastically underestimates the impact of social distinctions predicated upon wealth, especially inherited wealth..." You got that from "Work in Essex County," Page 421, right? Do you have any thoughts of your own on the subject or were you just gonna plagiarize the whole book for me? Clark is stunned. WILL Look, don't try to pass yourself off as some kind of an intellect at the expense of my friend just to impress these girls. Clark is lost now, searching for a graceful exit, any exit. WILL The sad thing is, in about 50 years you might start doin' some thinkin' on your own and by then you'll realize there are only two certainties in life. CLARK Yeah? What're those? WILL One, don't do that. Two -- you dropped a hundred and fifty grand on an education you coulda' picked up for a dollar fifty in late charges at the Public Library. Will catches Skylar's eye. CLARK But I will have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive through on our way to a skiing trip. WILL (smiles) Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. (beat) And if you got a problem with that, I guess we can step outside and deal with it that way. While Will is substantially smaller than Clark, he [Clark] decides not to take Will up on his [Will's] offer. WILL If you change your mind, I'll be over by the bar. He turns and walks away. Chuckie follows, throwing Clark a look. Morgan turns to a nearby girl. MORGAN My boy's wicked smart. INT. BOW AND ARROW, AT THE BAR -- LATER Will sits with Morgan at the bar watching with some amusement as Chuckie and Billy play bar basketball game where the players shoot miniature balls at a small basket. In the B.G. occasionally we hear Chuckie shouting "Larry!" When he scores. Skylar emerges from the crowd and approaches Will. SKYLAR You suck. WILL What? SKYLAR I've been sitting over there for forty-five minutes waiting for you to come talk to me. But I'm just tired now and I have to go home and I wasn't going to keep sitting there waiting for you. WILL I'm Will. SKYLAR Skylar. And by the way. That guy over there is a real dick and I just wanted you to know he didn't come with us. WILL I kind of got that impression. SKYLAR Well, look, I have to go. Gotta' get up early and waste some more money on my overpriced education. WILL I didn't mean you. Listen, maybe... SKYLAR Here's my number. Skylar produces a folded piece of paper and offers it to Will. SKYLAR Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime? WILL Great, or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels. SKYLAR What? WILL When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee. SKYLAR (laughs) Okay, sounds good. She turns. WILL Five minutes. SKYLAR What? WILL I was trying to be smooth. (indicates clock) But at twelve-fifteen I was gonna come over there and talk to you. SKYLAR See, it's my life story. Five more minutes and I would have got to hear your best pick-up line. WILL The caramel thing is my pick-up line. A beat. SKYLAR Glad I came over. CUT TO: EXT. BOW AND ARROW -- LATER Our boys are walking out of the bar teasing one another about their bar-ball exploits. Across the street is another bar with a glass front. Morgan spots Clark sitting by the window with some friends. MORGAN There goes that fuckin' Barney right now, with his fuckin' "skiin' trip." We should'a kicked that dude's ass. WILL Hold up. Will crosses the street and approaches the plate glass window and stands across from Clark, separated only by the glass. He POUNDS THE GLASS to get Clark's attention. WILL Hey! Clark turns toward Will. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES? Clark doesn't get it. WILL DO YOU LIKE APPLES?! CLARK Yeah? Will SLAMS SKYLAR'S PHONE NUMBER against the glass. WILL WELL I GOT HER NUMBER! HOW DO YA LIKE THEM APPLES?!! Will's boys erupt into laughter. Angle on Clark, deflated. EXT. STREET -- NIGHT The boys make their way home, piled into Chuckie's car, laughing together.

uncomplaining,--

How many times the word 'uncomplaining,--' appears in the text?

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

steady

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

silence

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

emulations

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

very

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

cleared

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

perhaps

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

understood

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

look

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

gets

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

hollows

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

trusting

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

hope

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

mothers

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

vicious

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

girls

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

cemetery

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

fortress

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

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Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

gardener

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

Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax. "I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?" Alwynne flashed a look at him. "I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the--the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here." "Well, Harris--my head-gardener--doesn't approve. Thinks it's _infra dig_. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!" "I don't take it. Clare--a friend of mine--never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so." "I did," he said significantly. She coloured painfully: she would not look at him. "I was very tired," she said lamely. "Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?" He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin--altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him. "I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought--I'm afraid I was rather silly--in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected--that is--I did not expect----" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone. He would not understand their appeal. "Yes, you expected----" he prompted her. She controlled her voice with difficulty. "Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes." "Does one?" "In the country--I'm town-bred." She smiled at him. He made up his mind, though he felt brutal. "You were expecting--Louise?" There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off. "No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her--you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind--only in my mind--but if you saw her too----" Her voice failed. He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation. "No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her--once or twice, you see." "Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse----" He broke in. "Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly. "A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips. Again they were blankly silent. Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion-- "If you laugh--it will be wicked if you laugh at me." "I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety. She met his look and shrugged her shoulders. "Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember----" Her voice trailed into silence. "But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought. The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables. Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly. "Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?" "You?" "Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest." For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily. "I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even." "Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people." "No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension. "Of course not. But you see--I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me--because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me--d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly. She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy. "Don't you see?" he repeated. "You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?" "No, Alwynne," he said gravely. For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak. CHAPTER XXXIV Alwynne's words, after the months of silence, came rushing out, breaking down all barriers, sweeping on in unnatural fluency. Yet she was simple and direct, entirely sincere; accepting him at his own valuation, impersonally, as confessor and comforter, without a side glance at the impression she might make, or its effect on their after relations. She told him the story of Louise; and he felt sick as he listened. Unintentionally, for she was obviously absorbed in her school and uncritical in her attitude to it, she gave him a vivid enough impression of the system in force, of the deliberate encouragement of much that he considered unhealthy, if not unnatural. He detected an hysterical tendency in the emulations and enthusiasms to which she referred. The gardener in him revolted at the thought of such congestion of minds and bodies. He felt as indignant as if he had discovered a tray of unthinned seedlings. Alwynne conveyed to him, more clearly than she knew, an idea of the forcing-house atmosphere that she, and those still younger than she, had been breathing. The friend she so constantly mentioned, repelled him; he thought of her with distaste, as of an unscrupulous and unskilful hireling; he was amazed at the affection of Alwynne's references to her. Only in connection with the dead child was there a hint of uncertainty in her attitude. There perhaps, she admitted, had "Clare" been, not unkind--never and impossibly unkind--but perhaps, with the best of motives, mistaken. She had not understood Louise. Roger agreed silently and grimly enough. She had not understood Louise, whom she had killed, nor this loyal and affectionate child, whom she was driving into melancholia, nor any one it appeared, nor anything, but the needs of her own barrenly emotional nature.... He was horrified at the idea of such a woman, such a type of woman, in undisputed authority, moulding the mothers of the next generation.... He had never considered the matter seriously, but he supposed she was but one of many.... There must be something poisonous in a system that could render possible the placing of such women in such positions.... "Then what happened, after that poor child's death?" he asked. "She left, of course?" "Who?" "Your friend--'Clare'--Miss----?" "Hartill. Oh, no! Why should she?" "I should have thought--suicide--bad for the school's reputation?" "Then you think it was--that--too? It was supposed to be an accident." "How do you mean, 'supposed'?" "There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless. "And then she was run down and did her work badly. And Clare hates illness--besides--she thought Louise was slacking. I tried to make her see----Oh," she cried passionately, "why didn't I try harder? It's haunting me, Roger, that I didn't try hard enough. I ought to have known how she felt--I was near her age. Clare couldn't be expected to--but Louise talked to me sometimes--I ought to have seen. I did see. All that summer she went about so white and miserable--and Clare was angry with her--and I hadn't the pluck to tackle either of them. I was afraid of being a busybody--I was afraid of upsetting Clare. You see--I'm awfully fond of Clare. She makes you forget everything but herself. And, of course, she never realised what was wrong with Louise. I didn't altogether, either--you do believe that?" She broke off, questioning pitifully, as if he were her judge. He nodded. "Right till the day of the play, I never really saw how crazily miserable she was growing. She was crazy--don't you think?" "You want to think so?" He considered her curiously. "It mitigates it." "That she killed herself?" "It's deadly sin? Or don't you believe----?" "No," he said. "There's such a thing as the right of exit--but go on." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you what I think presently. I want all your thoughts now----There were signs----?" "Of insanity? No. But she was--exaggerated--too intelligent--too babyish--too brilliant--too everything. She felt things too much. She failed in an exam.--sheer overwork--just before." "I see. Was she ambitious?" "Only to please Clare. Clare didn't like her failing." "Did she tell the child so?" His tone was stern. "Oh, no!" "You're sure?" "Clare would have told me if they had had a row. She tells me everything." He smiled a little. "How old is your friend?" She looked surprised. "Oh--thirty-three--thirty-four--thirty-five. I don't really know. She never talks about ages and looks and that sort of thing. She rather despises all that. She laughs at me for--for liking clothes...." Her little blush made her look natural again. "But why?" "I wondered. Then there was nothing to upset the child?" "Only the failing. And then the play. I told you. She was awfully strange afterwards. That's where I blame myself. I ought to have seen that she was overwrought. But she drank the tea, and cheered up so when I told her Clare was pleased with her acting----" "Was she?" He was frowning interestedly. "I'm sure she must have been--it was brilliant, you know." "She said so?" "Oh, not actually--but I could tell. And it cheered the child up. I was quite easy about her--and then ten minutes later----" She shuddered. "Then it might have been an accident," he suggested soothingly. "It wasn't," she said, with despairing conviction. "My dear girl! Either you're indulging in morbid imaginings--or you've something to go on?" She shook her head with a frightened look at him. "No!" she said hurriedly. "No!" "Then why," he said quietly, meeting her eyes, "were you frightened at the inquest?" She averted her eyes. "I wasn't--I mean--I was nervous, of course." "You were frightened of what you might slip into saying. You told me so ten minutes ago." "Oh, if you're trying to trap me?" she flashed out wrathfully. He rejoiced at the tone. It was the impetuous Alwynne of his daily intercourse again. The mere relief of discussion was, as he had guessed, having a tonic effect on her nerves. He smiled at her pleasantly. "Don't tell me anything more, if you'd rather not." She subsided at this. "I didn't mean to be angry," she faltered. "Only I've guarded myself so from telling. You see, I lied at the inquest. It was perjury, I suppose." There was a little touch of importance in her tone. "But I'll tell you." She hesitated, her older self once more supervening. "Afterwards--when the doctor had come, and they took Louise away--after that ghastly afternoon was over----" She whitened. "It was ghastly, you know--so many people--crowding and gaping--I dream of all those crowded faces----" "Well?" he urged her forward. "I went up to the room where she had changed, to see that the children had gone----" "She fell from that room?" "She must have. After she had changed. She'd locked the door--to change. I broke it open. I thought she had fainted--a baby told me something about Louise falling--lisping so, I couldn't make out what she meant--and I'd run up to see. It turned out afterwards that little Joan had been in a lower room, and had seen her body as it fell past the window." "How beastly!" he said, with an involuntary shudder. "And when I got the door open--an empty room. Something made me look out of the window. She was down below--right under me--on the steps." She was silent. "But afterwards?" he urged her. "You went up again?" "I had to. I was afraid already--recollecting little things. I looked about, in case she'd left a message. And on the window-ledge--there were great scratches. Then I knew." She was forgetting him, staring into space, peopled as it was with her memories. "I don't understand," he said. She did not answer. "Alwynne!" he said urgently. She looked at him absently. "Scratches? What are you driving at?" "Oh," she said dully, "there was a nail in her shoe. She had tried to hammer it in at the morning school. It had made scratches all over the rostrum. I was rather cross about it." "But I don't see," he began, and stopped, realising suddenly her meaning. "You mean--she must have stood on the ledge--to make those marks?" "Yes," said Alwynne. Then, fiercely, "Well?" "Yes, that's conclusive," he admitted. He looked at her pityingly. "You poor child! And you never told?" "I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown--like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know--and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?" He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone. "It can't have been easy for you--that week," he said gently. "Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest--I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny." "I know," he said. "And when it was over--I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral--I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold--icy cold--in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again. "Well?" he prompted. "I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me--and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee--and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person." "You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock--and the strain----" "Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think--her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive--she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it--well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind--but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible--indirectly--for the whole thing----" Her voice quavered. Roger, watching her simple face, wanted to do something vigorous. At that moment it would have given him great satisfaction to have interviewed Miss Hartill. Failing that, he wanted to take Alwynne by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of her. He repressed himself, however. He was in his way, as simple as Alwynne, but where she was merely direct, he was shrewd. He knew that she must show him all the weeds that were choking her before he could set about uprooting them and planting good seed in their stead. She went on. "But even then, though I had been neglectful--oh, Roger, what made Louise do it? Just then? She looked happier! It couldn't have been anything I'd said! I know I cheered her up. It's inconceivable! She was smiling, contented--and she went straight upstairs and killed herself!" He shook his head. "Inconceivable, as you say. You're sure--of your facts!" "How?" "I mean--you were the last person to see her?" "Oh, yes, Roger! every one was at tea." "Miss Hartill?" "Clare would have said----" "Of course," he said, "she tells you everything." She nodded, in all good faith-- "Besides, Clare was in the mistresses' room." "Impossible for her to have spoken with Louise?" "Quite. Clare would have told me----" "Yet there remains the fact that Louise was, as you say, happier after seeing you. Within fifteen minutes, she is dead. Either she went mad--which I don't believe, do you?" "I want to----" "But you don't--knowing the child. Neither do I, from what you tell me. She seems to have been horribly sane. Sane enough, anyhow, to throw off a burden. So if, as we agree, she didn't suddenly go mad--something occurred to change her mood of comparative happiness to actual despair. I think, if you ask me, that she did see Miss Hartill after she left you." "But Clare would have told me," repeated Alwynne stubbornly. "I'm not so sure." "But she said nothing at the inquest, either." "Did you?" he retorted. "If she had had a row with the child it would have sounded pretty bad." "But Clare's incapable of deceit." "She might say the same of you." "But--if your guess were true, it would be Clare's fault--all Clare's fault--not mine at all!" she deducted slowly. "It's not your fault, anyway," he assured her. "But it would have been too utterly cruel of Clare not to have told me. She knew what I felt at the time--why not have told me?" "She might have been afraid--you might have shrunk----" "From Clare?" She smiled securely. Then, with a change of tone: "No, Roger. All this is guessing, far-fetched guessing." "Anyhow, Alwynne," he said sharply, "there was gross cruelty in her treatment of that child. You can't excuse it. Directly or indirectly, she is responsible for her death." She flushed. "You have not the shadow of right to say that." "I do say it." She put out her hand to him with a touch of appeal. "Please--won't you leave Clare out of it? You are utterly wrong. You see, you don't know her. If you did you would understand. I am so grateful to you for being kind. I don't want to be angry. But I must, if you talk like that. Please--if you can, make me sure it wasn't my fault. But if it involves Clare--I'd rather go on being--not not quite happy. Yet I hoped, perhaps, you would help me." "Of course I'm helping you," he said, quick to catch and adopt her tone. He had no wish to intimidate her. He liked her pathetic little dignities and loyalties. He was, so far, content; he had, he knew, in spite of her protestations, sown a seed of distrust in her mind. Time would ripen it. He felt no compunction in enlightening her blind devotion. He had quick antipathies, and he had conceived an idea of Clare Hartill that would have appalled Alwynne, and which justified to himself any measure that he might see fit to take. In his own mind he referred to her as "that poisonous female." There were no half-measures with Roger. CHAPTER XXXV Alwynne leant back in her chair and regarded Roger with some intentness. "Well?" he said politely. "I was thinking----" she said lamely. "Obviously." "That it was rather queer--that I should tell you all this, when I couldn't even tell Elsbeth." "Don't you think it's often easier to talk to strangers? One's personality can make its own impression--it has no preconception to fight against." "Yes. But I hate strangers, till they've stopped being strange. And, you know"--she hesitated--"I haven't really liked you. Have you noticed it?" "In streaks," he admitted. "But why?" "You patronise so!" she flared. "You make me feel a fool. This afternoon----Of course, it's quite true that I don't know much about men. I suppose you knew I was--inexperienced; but you needn't have rubbed it in. And you've always talked down to me." "I don't think I did," he considered the matter unsmiling. "I think it's rather the other way--the tilt of your nose disturbs my complacence. You listen to me at meals like Disapproval incarnate. You make me nervous." "Do I?" she asked delightedly. "Yes." He laughed. "I hide it under a superior air, of course." "Yes, of course," she sympathised. "That's what I do always." "It is useful," he agreed. "People may think you disagreeable, but at least you're dignified. _You have chosen your fault well, I really cannot laugh at it._ Do you remember? I told Elsbeth that you were like Mr. Darcy." "And that you don't like me?" "Well--I didn't. That's why it's so queer--that I can talk to you so easily. I am grateful. It has helped, just talking." "I knew it would." "I feel better." She stirred in her seat. "Is it late? Ought we to be going home?" He chose his words, his eyes on her, though he spoke casually enough. "No hurry. We can always take a cut through the wood, you know." She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed. "I think I'd rather go at once--round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils. "Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth. "Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here--put your finger here, will you?" Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her. "Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her. "If you dreamed a dream----" she began unwillingly, "night after night--month after month--something ghastly----" "Yes--" he encouraged her. "Ah, well--at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day--you dreamt it while you were awake----?" "Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words--the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them. "Do you believe in hell?" she flung at him. "I should jolly well think so." "For children?" Her tone implored comfort. "I'm afraid so." "But how can it be fair? They're so little. They don't know right from wrong." "I knew a kid," he said meditatively, an eye on her tormented face, "only eight--used to act, if you please. Hung about London stage-doors, and bearded managers in their dens for a living. Quick little chap! Father drunk or ill; incapable, anyhow. The child supported them both. I've seen that child kept hanging about three or four hours on end. And what he knew! It made you sick and sorry. He must be twelve by now--getting on, I believe, poor kid! And a cheerful monkey! He's certainly had his hell, though." She had hardly listened, she was absorbed in her thoughts; but she caught at his last words---- "In this life? Oh, yes! That's cruel enough. But not afterwards? Not eternal damnation! I don't mind it for myself so much--but for a baby that can't understand why----It isn't possible, is it?" He began to laugh jollily. "Alwynne--you utter fool! Don't you believe in God?" "I suppose so," she admitted. "Of course, if you didn't----" "Yes," she thrust in. "Then it would be all right. I could be sure she was asleep--dead--like last year's leaves----" "But why should God complicate matters?" "Well--heaven follows--and hell--don't they? _Their worm dieth not_--and all the rest." "Oh, I follow." "Miss Marsham--the head mistress, you know--of course she's very old--but she believes--terribly. It's an awfully religious school. It scares some of the children. I used to

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

cubic

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

Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

getting

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

Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

lots

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

mile

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

Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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

Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

nothing

How many times the word 'nothing' appears in the text?

Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

neither

How many times the word 'neither' appears in the text?

Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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

Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

well,--and

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

Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

gentleman

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

Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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Gray was a bit wheezy),--the Big Gray without his dinner! "Hully gee! Look at de bloke a-jollying Jinnie, an' de Blowhard a-starvin'. Say, Patsy,"--lifting him down,--"hold de line till I git de Big Gray a bite. Git on ter Carl, will ye! I'm a-goin'--ter--tell de--boss,"--with a threatening air, weighing each word--"jes soon as she gits back. Ef I don't I'm a chump." At sight of the boys, Jennie darted into the house, and Carl started for the stable, his head in the clouds, his feet on air. "No; I feed da horse, Cully,"--jerking at his halter to get him away from Cully. "A hell ov 'er lot ye will! I'll feed him meself. He's been home an hour now, an' he ain't half rubbed down." Carl made a grab for Cully, who dodged and ran under the cart. Then a lump of ice whizzed past Carl's ear. "Here, stop that!" said Tom, entering the gate. She had been in the city all the morning--"to look after her poor Tom," Pop said. "Don't ye be throwing things round here, or I'll land on top of ye." "Well, why don't he feed de Gray, den? He started afore me, and dey wants de Gray down ter de brewery, and he up ter de house a-buzzin' Jinnie." "I go brang Mees Jan's apron; da goat eat it oop." "Ye did, did ye! What ye givin' us? Didn't I see ye a-chinnin' 'er whin I come over de hill--she a-leanin' up ag'in' de fence, an' youse a-talkin' ter 'er, an' ole Blowhard cryin' like his heart was broke?" "Eat up what apron?" said Tom, thoroughly mystified over the situation. "Stumpy eat da apron--I brang back--da half ta Mees Jan." "An' it took ye all the mornin' to give it to her?" said Tom thoughtfully, looking Carl straight in the eye, a new vista opening before her. That night when the circle gathered about the lamp to hear Pop read, Carl was missing. Tom had not sent for him. VII. THE CONTENTS OF CULLY'S MAIL When Walking Delegate Crimmins had recovered from his amazement, after his humiliating defeat at Tom's hands, he stood irresolute for a moment outside her garden gate, indulged at some length in a form of profanity peculiar to his class, and then walked direct to McGaw's house. That worthy Knight met him at the door. He had been waiting for him. Young Billy McGaw also saw Crimmins enter the gate, and promptly hid himself under the broken-down steps. He hoped to overhear what was going on when the two went out again. Young Billy's inordinate curiosity was quite natural. He had heard enough of the current talk about the tenements and open lots to know that something of a revengeful and retaliatory nature against the Grogans was in the air; but as nobody who knew the exact details had confided them to him, he had determined upon an investigation of his own. He not only hated Cully, but the whole Grogan household, for the pounding he had received at his hands, so he was anxious to get even in some way. After McGaw had locked both doors, shutting out his wife and little Jack, their youngest, he took a bottle from the shelf, filled two half-tumblers, and squaring himself in his chair, said:-- "Did ye see her, Crimmy?" "I did," replied Crimmins, swallowing the whiskey at a gulp. "An' she'll come in wid us, will she?" "She will, will she? She'll come in nothin'. I jollied her about her flowers, and thought I had her dead ter rights, when she up an' asked me what we was a-goin' to do for her if she jined, an' afore I could tell her she opens the front door and gives me the dead cold." "Fired ye?" exclaimed McGaw incredulously. "I'm givin' it to ye straight, Dan; an' she pulled a gun on me, too,"--telling the lie with perfect composure. "That woman's no slouch, or I don't know 'em. One thing ye can bet yer bottom dollar on--all h--- can't scare her. We've got to try some other way." It was the peculiarly fertile quality of Crimmins's imagination that made him so valuable to some of his friends. When the conspirators reached the door, neither Crimmins nor his father was in a talkative mood, and Billy heard nothing. They lingered a moment on the sill, within a foot of his head as he lay in a cramped position below, and then they sauntered out, his father bareheaded, to the stable-yard. There McGaw leaned upon a cart-wheel, listening dejectedly to Crimmins, who seemed to be outlining a plan of some kind, which at intervals lightened the gloom of McGaw's despair, judging from the expression of his father's face. Then he turned hurriedly to the house, cursed his wife because he could not find his big fur cap, and started across to the village. Billy followed, keeping a safe distance behind. Tom after Patsy's sad experience forbade him the streets, and never allowed him out of her sight unless Cully or her father were with him. She knew a storm was gathering, and she was watching the clouds and waiting for the first patter of rain. When it came she intended that every one of her people should be under cover. She had sent for Carl and her two stablemen, and told them that if they were dissatisfied in any way she wanted to know it at once. If the wages she was paying were not enough, she was willing to raise them, but she wanted them distinctly to understand that as she had built up the business herself, she was the only one who had a right to manage it, adding that she would rather clean and drive the horses herself than be dictated to by any person outside. She said that she saw trouble brewing, and knew that her men would feel it first. They must look out for themselves coming home late at night. At the brewery strike, two years before, hardly a day passed that some of the non-union men were not beaten into insensibility. That night Carl came back again to the porch door, and in his quiet, earnest way said: "We have t'ink 'bout da Union. Da men not go--not laik da union man. We not 'fraid"--tapping his hip-pocket, where, sailor-like, he always carried his knife sheathed in a leather case. Tom's eyes kindled as she looked into his manly face. She loved pluck and grit. She knew the color of the blood running in this young fellow's veins. Week after week passed, and though now and then she caught the mutterings of distant thunder, as Cully or some of the others overheard a remark on the ferry-boat or about the post-office, no other signs of the threatened storm were visible. Then it broke. One morning an important-looking envelope lay in her letter-box. It was long and puffy, and was stamped in the upper corner with a picture of a brewery in full operation. One end bore an inscription addressed to the postmaster, stating that in case Mr. Thomas Grogan was not found within ten days, it should be returned to Schwartz & Co., Brewers. The village post-office had several other letter-boxes, faced with glass, so that the contents of each could be seen from the outside. Two of these contained similar envelopes, looking equally important, one being addressed to McGaw. When he had called for his mail, the close resemblance between the two envelopes seen in the letter-boxes set McGaw to thinking. Actual scrutiny through the glass revealed the picture of the brewery on each. He knew then that Tom had been asked to bid for the brewery hauling. That night a special meeting of the Union was called at eight o'clock. Quigg, Crimmins, and McGaw signed the call. "Hully gee, what a wad!" said Cully, when the postmaster passed Tom's big letter out to him. One of Cully's duties was to go for the mail. When Pop broke the seal in Tom's presence,--one of Pop's duties was to open what Cully brought,--out dropped a type-written sheet notifying Mr. Thomas Grogan that sealed proposals would be received up to March 1st for "unloading, hauling, and delivering to the bins of the Eagle Brewery" so many tons of coal and malt, together with such supplies, etc. There were also blank forms in duplicate to be duly filled up with the price and signature of the bidder. This contract was given out once a year. Twice before it had been awarded to Thomas Grogan. The year before a man from Stapleton had bid lowest, and had done the work. McGaw and his friends complained that it took the bread out of Rockville's mouth; but as the bidder belonged to the Union, no protest could be made. The morning after the meeting of the Union, McGaw went to New York by the early boat. He carried a letter from Pete Lathers, the yardmaster, to Crane & Co., of so potent a character that the coal-dealers agreed to lend McGaw five hundred dollars on his three-months' note, taking a chattel mortgage on his teams and carts as security, the money to be paid McGaw as soon as the papers were drawn. McGaw, in return, was to use his "pull" to get a permit from the village trustees for the free use of the village dock by Crane & Co. for discharging their Rockville coal. This would save Crane half a mile to haul. It was this promise made by McGaw which really turned the scale in his favor. To hustle successfully it was often necessary for Crane to cut some sharp corners. This dock, as McGaw knew perfectly well, had been leased to another party--the Fertilizing Company--for two years, and could not possibly be placed at Crane's disposal. But he said nothing of this to Crane. When the day of payment to McGaw arrived, Dempsey of the executive committee and Walking Delegate Quigg met McGaw at the ferry on his return from New York. McGaw had Crane's money in his pocket. That night he paid two hundred dollars into the Union, two hundred to his feed-man on an account long overdue, and the balance to Quigg in a poker game in the back room over O'Leary's bar. Tom also had an interview with Mr. Crane shortly after his interview with McGaw. Something she said about the dock having been leased to the Fertilizing Company caused Crane to leave his chair in a hurry, and ask his clerk in an angry voice if McGaw had yet been paid the money on his chattel mortgage. When his cashier showed him the stub of the check, dated two days before, Crane slammed the door behind him, his teeth set tight, little puffs of profanity escaping between the openings. As he walked with Tom to the door, he said:-- "Send your papers up, Tom, I'll go bond any day in the year for you, and for any amount; but I'll get even with McGaw for that lie he told me about the dock, if it takes my bank account." The annual hauling contract for the brewery, which had become an important one in Rockville, its business having nearly doubled in the last few years, was of special value to Tom at this time, and she determined to make every effort to secure it. Pop filled up the proposal in his round, clear hand, and Tom signed it, "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, Staten Island." Then Pop witnessed it, and Mr. Crane, a few days later, duly inscribed the firm's name under the clause reserved for bondsmen. After that Tom brought the bid home, and laid it on the shelf over her bed. Everything was now ready for the fight. The bids were to be opened at noon in the office of the brewery. By eleven o'clock the hangers-on and idlers began to lounge into the big yard paved with cobblestones. At half past eleven McGaw got out of a buggy, accompanied by Quigg. At a quarter to twelve Tom, in her hood and ulster, walked rapidly through the gate, and, without as much as a look at the men gathered about the office door, pushed her way into the room. Then she picked up a chair and, placing it against the wall, sat down. Sticking out of the breast pocket of her ulster was the big envelope containing her bid. Five minutes before the hour the men began filing in one by one, awkwardly uncovering their heads, and standing in one another's way. Some, using their hats as screens, looked over the rims. When the bids were being gathered up by the clerk, Dennis Quigg handed over McGaw's. The ease with which Dan had raised the money on his notes had invested that gentleman with some of the dignity and attributes of a capitalist; the hired buggy and the obsequious Quigg indicated this. His new position was strengthened by the liberal way in which he had portioned out his possessions to the workingman. It was further sustained by the hope that he might perhaps repeat his generosities in the near future. At twelve o'clock precisely Mr. Schwartz, a round, bullet-headed German, entered the room, turned his revolving-chair, and began to cut the six envelopes heaped up before him on his desk, reading the prices aloud as he opened them in succession, the clerk recording. The first four were from parties in outside villages. Then came McGaw's:-- "Forty-nine cents for coal, etc." So far he was lowest. Quigg twisted his hat nervously, and McGaw's coarse face grew red and white by turns. Tom's bid was the last. "Thomas Grogan, Rockville, S.I., thirty-eight cents for coal, etc." "Gentlemen," said Mr. Schwartz, quietly, "Thomas Grogan gets the hauling." VIII. POP MULLINS'S ADVICE Almost every man and woman in the tenement district knew Oscar Schwartz, and had felt the power of his obstinate hand during the long strike of two years before, when, the Union having declared war, Schwartz had closed the brewery for several months rather than submit to its dictation. The news, therefore, that the Union had called a meeting and appointed a committee to wait on Mr. Schwartz, to protest against his giving work to a non-union woman filled them with alarm. The women remembered the privations and suffering of that winter, and the three dollars a week doled out to them by the Central Branch, while their husbands, who had been earning two and three dollars a day, were drinking at O'Leary's bar, playing cards, or listening to the encouraging talk of the delegates who came from New York to keep up their spirits. The brewery employed a larger number of men than any other concern in Rockville, so trouble with its employees meant serious trouble for half the village if Schwartz defied the Union and selected a non-union woman to do the work. They knew, too, something of the indomitable pluck and endurance of Tom Grogan. If she were lowest on the bids, she would fight for the contract, they felt sure, if it took her last dollar. McGaw was a fool, they said, to bid so high; he might have known she would cut his throat, and bring them no end of trouble. Having nursed their resentment, and needing a common object for their wrath, the women broke out against Tom. Many of them had disliked her ever since the day, years ago, when she had been seen carrying her injured husband away at night to the hospital, after months of nursing at home. And the most envious had always maintained that she meant at the time to put him away forever where no one could find him, so that she might play the man herself. "Why should she be a-comin' in an' a-robbin' us of our pay?" muttered a coarse, red-faced virago, her hair in a frowse about her head, her slatternly dress open at the throat. "Oi'll be one to go an' pull her off the dock and jump on her. What's she a-doin', any-how, puttin' down prices! Ef her ole man had a leg to walk on, instid of his lyin' to-day a cripple in the hospital, he'd be back and be a-runnin' things." "She's doin' what she's a right to do," broke out Mrs. Todd indignantly. Mrs. Todd was the wife of the foreman at the brewery, and an old friend of Tom's. Tom had sat up with her child only the week before. Indeed, there were few women in the tenements, for all their outcry, who did not know how quick had been her hand to help when illness came, or the landlord threatened the sidewalk, or the undertaker insisted on his money in advance. "It's not Tom Grogan that's crooked," Mrs. Todd continued, "an' ye all know it. It's that loafer, Dennis Quigg, and that old sneak, Crimmins. They never lifted their hands on a decent job in their lives, an' don't want to. When my man Jack was out of work for four months last winter, and there wasn't a pail of coal in the house, wasn't Quigg gittin' his four dollars a day for shootin' off his mouth every night at O'Leary's, an' fillin' the men's heads full of capital and rights? An' Dan McGaw's no better. If ye're out for jumpin' on people, Mrs. Moriarty, begin with Quigg an' some of the bummers as is runnin' the Union, an' as gits paid whether the men works or not." "Bedad, ye're roight," said half a dozen women, the tide turning suddenly, while the excitement grew and spread, and other women came in from the several smaller tenements. "Is the trouble at the brewery?" asked a shrunken-looking woman, opening a door on the corridor, a faded shawl over her head. She was a new-comer, and had been in the tenement only a week or so--not long enough to have the run of the house or to know her neighbors. "Yes; at Schwartz's," said Mrs. Todd, stopping opposite her door on the way to her own rooms. "Your man's got a job there, ain't he?" "He has, mum; he's gateman--the fust job in six months. Ye don't think they'll make him throw it up, do ye, mum?" "Yes; an' break his head if he don't. Thet's what they did to my man three years gone, till he had to come in with the gang and pay 'em two dollars a month," replied Mrs. Todd. "But my man's jined, mum, a month ago; they wouldn't let him work till he did. Won't ye come in an' set down? It's a poor place we have--we've been so long without work, an' my girl's laid off with a cough. She's been a-workin' at the box-factory. If the Union give notice again, I don't know what'll become of us. Can't we do somethin'? Maybe Mrs. Grogan might give up the work if she knew how it was wid us. She seems like a dacent woman; she was in to look at me girl last week, hearin' as how we were strangers an' she very bad." "Oh, ye don't know her. Ye can save yer wind and shoe-leather. She's on ter McGaw red hot; that's the worst of it. He better look out; she'll down him yet," said Mrs. Todd. As the two entered the stuffy, close room for further discussion, a young girl left her seat by the window, and moved into the adjoining apartment. She had that yellow, waxy skin, hollow, burning eyes, and hectic flush which tell the fatal story so clearly. While the women of the tenements were cursing or wringing their hands, the men were devoting themselves to more vigorous measures. A meeting was called for nine o'clock at Lion Hall. It was held behind closed doors. Two walking delegates from Brooklyn were present, having been summoned by telegram the night before, and who were expected to coax or bully the weak-kneed, were the ultimatum sent to Schwartz refused and an order for a sympathetic strike issued. At the brewery all was quiet. Schwartz had read the notice left on his desk by the committee the night before, and had already begun his arrangements to supply the places of the men if a strike were ordered. When pressed by Quigg for a reply, he said quietly:-- "The price for hauling will be Grogan's bid. If she wants it, it is hers." Tom talked the matter over with Pop, and had determined to buy another horse and hire two extra carts. At her price there was a margin of at least ten cents a ton profit, and as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm. That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,--Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,--when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it. Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement. "They want to see you, mother," said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week. "Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself." "She would come, Tom," said Mrs. Todd, unwinding her shawl from her head and shoulders; "an' ye mustn't blame me, fer it's none of my doin's. Walk in, mum; ye can speak to her yerself. Why, where is she?"--looking out of the door into the darkness. "Oh, here ye are; I thought ye'd skipped." "Do ye remember me?" said the woman, stepping into the room, her gaunt face looking more wretched under the flickering light of the candle than it had done in the morning. "I'm the new-comer in the tenements. Ye were in to see my girl th'other night. We're in great trouble." "She's not dead?" said Tom, sinking into a chair. "No, thank God; we've got her still wid us; but me man's come home to-night nigh crazy. He's a-walkin' the floor this minute, an' so I goes to Mrs. Todd, an' she come wid me. If he loses the job now, we're in the street. Only two weeks' work since las' fall, an' the girl gettin' worse every day, and every cint in the bank gone, an' hardly a chair lef' in the place. An' I says to him, 'I'll go meself. She come in to see Katie th' other night; she'll listen to me.' We lived in Newark, mum, an' had four rooms and a mahogany sofa and two carpets, till the strike come in the clock-factory, an' me man had to quit; an' then all winter--oh, we're not used to the likes of this!"--covering her face with her shawl and bursting into tears. Tom had risen to her feet, her face expressing the deepest sympathy for the woman, though she was at a loss to understand the cause of her visitor's distress. "Is yer man fired?" she asked. "No, an' wouldn't be if they'd let him alone. He's sober an' steady, an' never tastes a drop, and brings his money home to me every Saturday night, and always done; an' now they"-- "Well, what's the matter, then?" Tom could not stand much beating about the bush. "Why, don't ye know they've give notice?" she said in astonishment; then, as a misgiving entered her mind, "Maybe I'm wrong; but me man an' all of 'em tells me ye're a-buckin' ag'in' Mr. McGaw, an' that ye has the haulin' job at the brewery." "No," said Tom, with emphasis, "ye're not wrong; ye're dead right. But who's give notice?" "The committee's give notice, an' the boss at the brewery says he'll give ye the job if he has to shut up the brewery; an' the committee's decided to-day that if he does they'll call out the men. My man is a member, and so I come over"--And she rested her head wearily against the door, the tears streaming down her face. Tom looked at her wonderingly, and then, putting her strong arms about her, half carried her across the kitchen to a chair by the stove. Mrs. Todd leaned against the table, watching the sobbing woman. For a moment no one spoke. It was a new experience for Tom. Heretofore the fight had been her own and for her own. She had never supposed before that she filled so important a place in the neighborhood, and for a moment there flashed across her mind a certain justifiable pride in the situation. But this feeling was momentary. Here was a suffering woman. For the first time she realized that one weaker than herself might suffer in the struggle. What could she do to help her? This thought was uppermost in her mind. "Don't ye worry," she said tenderly. "Schwartz won't fire yer man." "No; but the sluggers will. There was five men 'p'inted to-day to do up the scabs an' the kickers who won't go out. They near killed him once in Newark for kickin'. It was that time, you know, when Katie was first took bad." "Do ye know their names?" said Tom, her eyes flashing. "No, an' me man don't. He's new, an' they dar'sn't trust him. It was in the back room, he says, they picked 'em out." Tom stood for some moments in deep thought, gazing at the fire, her arms akimbo. Then, wheeling suddenly, she opened the door of the sitting-room, and said in a firm, resolute voice:-- "Gran'pop, come here; I want ye." The old man laid down his book, and stood in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his spectacles on his forehead. "Come inside the kitchen, an' shut that door behind ye. Here's me friend Jane Todd an' a friend of hers from the tenement. That thief of a McGaw has stirred up the Union over the haulin' bid, and they've sent notice to Schwartz that I don't belong to the Union, an' if he don't throw me over an' give the job to McGaw they'll call out the men. If they do, there's a hundred women and three times that many children that'll go hungry. This woman here's got a girl herself that hasn't drawed a well breath for six months, an' her man's been idle all winter, an' only just now got a job at Schwartz's, tending gate. Now, what'll I do? Shall I chuck up the job or stick?" The old man looked into the desolate, weary face of the woman and then at Tom. Then he said slowly:-- "Well, child, ye kin do widout it, an' maybe t' others can't." "Ye've got it straight," said Tom; "that's just what I think meself." Then, turning to the stranger:-- "Go home and tell yer man to go to bed. I'll touch nothin' that'll break the heart of any woman. The job's McGaw's. I'll throw up me bid." IX. WHAT A SPARROW SAW Ever since the eventful morning when Carl had neglected the Big Gray for a stolen hour with Jennie, Cully had busied himself in devising ways of making the Swede's life miserable. With a boy's keen insight, he had discovered enough to convince him that Carl was "dead mashed on Jennie," as he put it, but whether "for keeps" or not he had not yet determined. He had already enriched his songs with certain tender allusions to their present frame of mind and their future state of happiness. "Where was Moses when the light went out!" and "Little Annie Rooney" had undergone so subtle a change when sung at the top of Mr. James Finnegan's voice that while the original warp and woof of those very popular melodies were entirely unrecognizable to any but the persons interested, to them they were as gall and wormwood. This was Cully's invariable way of expressing his opinions on current affairs. He would sit on the front-board of his cart,--the Big Gray stumbling over the stones as he walked, the reins lying loose,--and fill the air with details of events passing in the village, with all the gusto of a variety actor. The impending strike at the brewery had been made the basis of a paraphrase of "Johnnie, get your gun;" and even McGaw's red head had come in for its share of abuse to the air of "Fire, boys, fire!" So for a time this new development of tenderness on the part of Carl for Jennie served to ring the changes on "Moses" and "Annie Rooney." Carl's budding hopes had been slightly nipped by the cold look in Tom's eye when she asked him if it took an hour to give Jennie a tattered apron. With some disappointment he noticed that except at rare intervals, and only when Tom was at home, he was no longer invited to the house. He had always been a timid, shrinking fellow where a woman was concerned, having followed the sea and lived among men since he was sixteen years old. During these earlier years he had made two voyages in the Pacific, and another to the whaling-ground in the Arctic seas. On this last voyage, in a gale of wind, he had saved all the lives aboard a brig, the crew helpless from scurvy. When the lifeboat reached the lee of her stern, Carl at the

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