The Machine | Page 9

to LAURA.] My dear, I finished up
downtown sooner than I expected, and I have another conference at the
house. I stopped off to see if you cared to come now, or if I should send
back the car for you.
LAURA. I think you'd best send it back.
JULIA. Why, yes . . . she only just got here.
HEGAN. Very well.
JULIA. Won't you stop a minute?
HEGAN. No. I really can't. Mr. Grimes is waiting for me downstairs.
LAURA. [Involuntarily.] Mr. Grimes!
HEGAN. Yes.
LAURA. Robert Grimes?
HEGAN. [Surprised.] Yes. Why?
LAURA. Nothing; only we happened to be just talking about him.
HEGAN. I see.
JACK. [Aggressively.] We happen to have one of his victims in the
next room.

HEGAN. [Perplexed.] One of his victims?
JULIA. [Protesting.] Jack!
JACK. A daughter of the slums. One of the helpless girls who have to
pay the tribute that he . . .
[A piercing and terrifying scream is heard off right.]
JULIA. Annie!
[Runs off.]
HEGAN. What's that?
[The screams continue.]
JULIA. [Off.] Help! Help!
[Jack, who is nearest, leaps toward the door; but, before he can reach it,
it is flung violently open.]
ANNIE. [Enters, delirious, her bare arms and throat covered with
bruises, her hair loose, and her aspect wild; an Irish peasant girl, aged
twenty.] No! No! Let me go!
[Rushes into the opposite corner, and cowers in terror.]
JULIA. [Following her.] Annie! Annie!
ANNIE. [Flings her off, and stretches out her arms.] What do you want
with me? Help! Help! I won't do it! I won't stay! Let me alone!
[Wild and frantic sobbing.]
JULIA. Annie, dear! Annie! Look at me! Don't you know me? I'm Julia!
Your own Julia! No one shall hurt you . . . no one!
ANNIE. [Stares at her wildly.] He's after me still! He'll follow me here!

He won't let me get away from him! Oh, save me!
JULIA. [Embracing her.] Listen to me, dear. Don't think of things like
that. You are in my home . . . nothing can hurt you. Don't let these evil
dreams take hold of you.
ANNIE. [Stares, as if coming out of a trance.] Why didn't you help me
before?
JULIA. Come, dear . . . come.
ANNIE. It's too late . . . too late! Oh . . . I can't forget about it!
JULIA. Yes, dear. I know . . .
ANNIE. [Seeing the others.] Who? . . .
JULIA. They are all friends; they will help you. Come, dear . . . lie
down again.
ANNIE. Oh, what shall I do?
[Is led off, sobbing.]
JULIA. It will be all right, dear.
[Exit; a pause.]
HEGAN. What does this mean?
JACK. [Promptly and ruthlessly.] It means that you have been seeing
the white- slave traffic in action.
HEGAN. I don't understand.
JACK. [Quietly, but with suppressed passion.] Tens of thousands of
girl slaves are needed for the markets of our great cities . . . for the
lumber camps of the North, the mining camps of the West, the ditches
of Panama. And every four or five years the supply must be renewed,

and so the business of gathering these girl- slaves from our slums is one
of the great industries of the city. This girl, Annie Rogers, a decent girl
from the North of Ireland, was lured into a dance hall and drugged, and
then taken to a brothel and locked in a third-story room. They took her
clothing away from her, but she broke down her door at night and fled
to the street in her wrapper and flung herself into Miss Patterson's arms.
Two men were pursuing her . . . they tried to carry her off. Miss
Patterson called a policeman . . . but he said the girl was insane. Only
by making a disturbance and drawing a crowd was my friend able to
save her. And now, we have been the rounds . . . from the sergeant at
the station, and the police captain, to the Chief of Police and the Mayor
himself; we have been to the Tammany leader of the district . . . the real
boss of the neighborhood . . . and there is no justice to be had anywhere
for Annie Rogers!
HEGAN. Impossible!
JACK. You have my word for it, sir. And the reason for it is that this
hideous traffic is one of the main cogs in our political machine. The
pimps and the panders, the cadets and maquereaux . . . they vote the
ticket of the organization; they contribute to the campaign funds; they
serve as colonizers and repeaters at the polls. The tribute that they pay
amounts to millions; and it is shared from the lowest to the highest in
the organization . . .