Writing for Vaudeville (B)
by Brett Page

Appendix - Nine Famous Vaudeville Acts Complete

“THE GERMAN SENATOR,” A Monologue, by Aaron Hoffman.

“THE ART OF FLIRTATION,” A Two-Act, by Aaron Hoffman.

“AFTER THE SHOWER,” A Flirtation Two-Act, by Louis Weslyn.

“THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER,” A Travesty Playlet, by Arthur Denvir.

“THE LOLLARD,” A Comedy Playlet, by Edgar Allan Woolf.

“BLACKMAIL,” A Tragic Playlet, by Richard Harding Davis.

“THE SYSTEM,” A Melodramatic Playlet, by Taylor Granville.

“A PERSIAN GARDEN,” A One-Act Musical Comedy, by Edgar Allan Woolf.

“My OLD KENTUCKY HOME,” A One-Act Burlesque, by James Madison.

A WORD ABOUT THE ACTS

The nine acts which are given, complete, in the following pages are representative of the very best in vaudeville. Naturally, they do not show every possible vaudeville variation–a series of volumes would be required for that–but, taken together, they represent all the forms of the talking vaudeville act that are commonly seen.

THE MONOLOGUE

The German Senator

This monologue by Aaron Hoffman has been chosen as perhaps the best example of the pure monologue ever written. Originally used by Cliff Gordon–continually being changed to keep it up-to-the-minute–it has, since his death, been presented by numerous successors of the first “German Senator.” It is doubtful if any other dramatic work–or any other writing–of equal length, and certainly no monologue, has returned to its author so much money as “The German Senator” has earned.

THE TWO-ACTS

The Art of Flirtation

For more years than perhaps any other vaudeville two-act, this exceptionally fine example of two-act form has been used by various famous German comedians. It may be considered to stand in much the same relation to the two-act that “The German Senator” does to the monologue. Its author, also Mr. Aaron Hoffman, holds a unique position among vaudeville and musical comedy writers.

After the Shower

This delightful little example of lover’s nonsense was played for more than four years by Lola Merrill and Frank Otto. It has been instanced as one of the daintiest and finest flirtation-couple-acts that the two-a-day has seen. Mr. Louis Weslyn has written perhaps more successful acts of this particular style than any other author.

THE PLAYLETS

The Villain Still Pursued Her

This travesty, one of the most successful on record, was used for years to star Mrs. Frank Sheridan. Written by Mr. Arthur Denvir, whose specialty is travesties, it undoubtedly became the inspiration for the many similar acts that created the travesty-vogue of 1912-15.

The Lollard

Edgar Allan Woolf, who wrote this delightful satirical comedy, is perhaps the most successful writer of playlets in this country. For many years he has turned out success after success for famous legitimate stars, while still other performers have become vaudeville stars in his acts. Mr. Woolf himself chose “The Lollard” as representative of his best comedies. The star role, Angela Maxwell, was created in this country by Miss Regina Cornelli, and in England by Miss Hilda Trevelyan.

Blackmail

Richard Harding Davis needs no introduction. This remarkable little tragedy was produced for the Orpheum Circuit by Mr. Charles Feleky, who declares it to be “the best tragic playlet I have produced.” From so eminent a vaudeville producer, this is, indeed, high praise. The character of Richard Fallon was created by Mr. Walter Hampden.

The System

Without doubt, this act is the best of the many big productions with which Mr. Taylor Granville has supplied The United Booking Offices of America, during his many years as a producing star. Mr. Junie McCree, who collaborated with Mr. Granville, was once president of “The White Rats,” the vaudeville actors’ union, and is now a successful vaudeville writer. Mr. Edward Clark, the third collaborator, has written many successful vaudeville acts.

“The System” is said to have been characterized by Mr. George M. Cohan as the best one-act melodrama he ever saw. Its extraordinary popularity in this country and in England is but added proof of the tenseness of its scenes and its great ending.

THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY

A Persian Garden

Played by Louis Simons season after season, this real comedy set to music is without question Mr. Edgar Allan Woolf’s best effort in this field. Unlike the usual musical comedy, this act possesses dialogue interest as well as pleasing brilliancy. It has won its many years of success not because of scenery, costumes and the chorus, but by the sterling worth apparent in the manuscript divorced from them.

THE BURLESQUE TAB

My Old Kentucky Home

Perhaps the most characteristic of the burlesque acts in vaudeville, this “Tab” has been played in various guises in the two-a-day and in burlesque for many seasons. It is the work of a writer who justly prides himself on his intimate knowledge of the burlesque form, and who possesses the most complete library of burlesque manuscripts in America. To the thousands of readers of “Madison’s Budget,” James Madison requires no introduction.

Permission to publish these acts has, in each instance, been personally granted to the author of this volume. This kind permission covers publication in this book only. Republication of these acts in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, is expressly prohibited.

Stage presentation of any of the acts is likewise forbidden. A Special Warning has been inserted in the introductory page of every act, at the request of each author. The reason for such repetition is to be found in the commercial value of successful vaudeville material, and in the fact that the general public has never precisely understood the reservations permitted to the author of a dramatic work under the copyright law. Infringements of any sort are subject to severe penalties under United States law and will be rigidly prosecuted.

To the writers of these acts the author of this volume wishes to express his deep appreciation for the permissions that enable him to print as illustrations of his text some of the finest acts that vaudeville has ever seen.

The German Senator
A Monologue

By Aaron Hoffman
Author of “The Politicians,” “The Belle of Avenue A,”
"The Newly-weds and their Baby”, “Let George Do It,”
"School Days,” Etc., Etc.

THE GERMAN SENATOR

My dear friends and falling citizens:

My heart fills up with vaccination to be disabled to come out here before such an intelligence massage of people and have the chance to undress such a large conglomerated aggravation.

I do not come before you like other political speakers, with false pride in one hand and the Star Strangled Banana in the other.

I come before you as a true, sterilized citizen, a man who is for the public and against the people, and I want to tell you, my ’steemed friends, when I look back on the early hysterics of our country, and think how our forefathers strangled to make this country voss iss is it; when you think of the lives that was loosed and the blood that was shredded, we got to feel a feeling of patriotic symptoms–we got to feel a patriotic symp–symps–you got to feel the patri–you can’t help it, you got to feel it.

I tell you, our hearts must fill up with indigestion when we look out to see the Statue of Liberty, the way she stands, all alone, dressed up in nothing, with a light in her hand, showing her freedom.

And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to stand.

With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell’s Island on the other.

And when she stands there now, looking on the country the way it is and what she has to stand for, I tell you tears and tears must drop from her eyes. Well, to prove it–look at the ocean she filled up.

And no wonder she’s crying. Read the nuisance papers. See what is going on.

Look what the country owes.

According to the last report of the Secretary of the Pleasury, the United States owes five billion dollars.

Nobody knows what we owe it for;

And nobody ever sees what we have got for it; [1]

[1] Here begins the “Panama Canal point,” referred to in Chapter V. It continues until the “End of Panama Canal Point” footnote below.

First read the monologue including this point, then read it skipping the point–thus you will see, first, what a complete “point” is; second, what “blending” means; and third, how a monologist may shorten or lengthen his routine by leaving out or including a point. [end footnote]

And if you go to Washington, the Capsule of the United States, and ask them, THEY don’t even know THEMSELVES.

Then they say, what keeps the country broke is the Pay-no-more Canal.

It cost the Government nine thousand dollars an hour to dig the canal. THINK OF THAT!

Nine thousand dollars an hour for digging, and the worst of it is, they ain’t digging.

Up to date, it has cost a hundred and seventy million dollars to dig a hole–they’ve been at it for over nine years–and the only hole they’ve dug is in the United States Treasury.

Every six months, the Chief Engineer, he comes up with a report;

He says: “Mr. Congress, the canal is getting better every day, a million dollars MORE please.”

He gets the money, goes out, buys a couple of shovels, then sends back a telegram: HOORAY–The digging is very good, the two oceans will soon be one.

Can you beat that?

Before they started the canal it didn’t cost us nothing, and we had two oceans.

And by the time they get through, it’ll cost us three hundred million and we’ll only have one.

And now that the canal is nearly finished, it looks like it was going to get us into trouble.

Japan is against it on one side and England don’t like it on the other.

And that’s why we’ve got to have a navy. [1]

[1] End of “Panama Canal point.” See footnote above, also Chapter V.

Of course, we’ve got a navy.

But everybody is kicking about it.

Why should they kick?

All we appropriated for the navy last year was four million dollars.

And there’s eighty million people in this country.

And that figures a nickel apiece.

And what the hell kind of a navy do you expect for a nickel?

Still they are crying that the country is in destitution circumstances. That is inconsis–inconsis–you can’t deny it.

Our country has got a superabum, a superabum–a superabum–we’ve got a lot of money.

There’s money lying in the treasury that never was touched. And the first fellow that will touch it will get six months.

The whole trouble is the trusts.

Look what the cold storage trust have done with the eggs. Sixty cents a dozen–for the good ones. And the good ones are rotten.

Then they say the reason prices are going up is because wages are getting higher.

But why should they raise the price of eggs?

The chickens ain’t getting any more wages.

And if meat goes up any higher, it will be worth more than money.

Then there won’t be any money.

Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you’ll carry meat around.

A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill.

When you go down to the bank to make a deposit, instead of giving the cashier a thousand dollar bill, you’ll slip him a sirloin steak.

If you ask him for change, he’ll give you a hunk of bologny.

If they keep on, we won’t be able to live at all.

Statistics prove that the average wages of the workingman is one dollar a day.

Out of that, he’s got to spend fifty cents a day for food; fifty-five cents for rent; ten cents for car fare.

And at the end of a hard day’s work–he owes himself fifteen cents.

Yet the rich people say that the poor people are getting prosperous.

They say, look at our streets. You see nothing but automobiles. You don’t see half the poor people now that you used to.

Certainly you don’t.

Half of them have already been run over and the other half is afraid to come out.

Why, between the automobiles and the trusts the poor man hasn’t got a chance to live.

And if only the gas trust gets a little stronger, the price of gas will go up so high a poor man won’t even be able to commit suicide.

They’ll have him both ways. He can’t live and he can’t die.

And that’s why I am with the socialists.

They say, “Down with the trusts! Do away with money. Make everything equal.”

Imagine a fellow going into a jewelry store and saying:

“Give me a diamond ring, here’s a lemon.”

But the socialists have got some good ideas for the working people. And my heart and soul is with the labor class of people. I am for labor unions.

But what help are the labor unions to the working man?

Look at it in the right light.

A man pays twenty-five dollars to join a union. He gets a job in a shop for two dollars a day, works two weeks, the union gets out on a strike and he owes himself a dollar.

The unions are crying the days are too long.

They want the days shorter. They want the days should be eight hours long.

But think of the fellows out in the North Pole where the days are six months long. That’s the place for the poor man to live.

When the landlord comes around and says, “Rent,” all you have to do is to tell him to come around the day after tomorrow.

Then Andrew Carnigger, he comes out and tells us you should save money and put it in the bank.

What’s the use of putting your money in the bank?

It’s easy enough to put it in, but it aint so easy to get it out. When you want to take your money out, you got to give the cashier sixty days notice.

And did you ever figure out how far a cashier can go in sixty days?

Then they say, as the world goes on, we are improving.

It’s ridiculum.

We were better off years ago than we are now.

Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing.

Life to him was a pleasure;

There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about.

Anything he wanted he could get.

But the darn fool had to get lonesome.

And that’s the guy that started all our troubles.

We would be all right today, if it wasn’t for Adam and Evil.

Then they say that Adam fell for an apple.

It just shows how men have improved.

No man would fall for an apple today.

It would have to be a peach.

And I tell you, it’s no wonder that women feel stuck up. They say they can do more than men can do.

That’s very true, when you go back to the first woman, Eve.

She was only one little woman, all by herself, and she put the whole human race on the bum.

Could a man do that?

And yet she was only a rib out of Adam’s side.

It just goes to show you what a cheap proposition woman was.

Nowadays, when you want to marry a woman, you got to buy a diamond ring, take her to the theatres, buy her taxicheaters, and what’s left of your wages you got to spend on candy and tango trots and turkey teas. There’s where Adam had it on all of us.

All Eve cost him was one bone.

It all goes to show you how much better off man was in those days than today, and while John D. Rottenfeller, the great Philosopede, he comes out and says, nobody has a right to be poor; he says, anybody can live on eighteen dollars a week.

He don’t have to tell us that.

Let him tell us how to get the eighteen.

And still that great statesment, William Chinning Bryan, he comes out and says, we are living in a great country. He says we are living in a country of excitement intelligence and education.

That’s very true.

Look at our public school system.

A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to be a man and he is thoroughly educated, he can go into the public school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month.

And the janitor gets ninety-five.

That shows you how education is coming to the front. Wouldn’t it better, instead of sending a child to school, to learn him to clean out a cellar?

And what’s the cause of all the trouble?

The House of Representatives.

We send them to Washington to look out for the people and the only time they look out for the people is when they look out the window and see them coming.

Then they get $7,500 a year. They spend $10,000 a year, and at the end of the year they have $100,000 saved.

No wonder they are careless with our money.

That’s all they got to do. Sit around Washington and touch the treasury.

Every couple of days a fellow comes into Congress and says:

“Good morning, Congress, let me have $4,000,000.”

That’s all they do, is make touches for millions.

You never heard of those suckers making a touch for a quarter, or a half a dollar.

To show you what they do with our money, look at our Weather Bureau Department.

We pay a fellow $10,000 a year. For what?

To tell us when it’s going to rain.

And he don’t know himself.

But he don’t want to know.

He knows that if he ever guesses it right, he is going to lose his job. But believe me, it’s a soft job.

Nothing to do.

He gets up in the morning, eats a nice breakfast, smokes a good fat cigar; then he looks out of the window and says, “Fine weather to-day.”

Then he takes his umbrella and goes out for a walk. I tell you, my dear friends, the way the country stands now, the country stands on the brink of a preci–the country stands on the brink of a precip–and if somebody shoves it, it is going over.

And the cause of all the trouble in the country is the crooked politics.

And that’s why the women suffering gents have gotten together and are fighting for their rights.

And you can’t blame them.

Now I see where one married woman has hit on a great idea.

She says there’s only one protection for the wives.

And that’s a wives’ union.

Imagine a union for wives.

A couple gets married.

And as soon as they get settled, along comes the walking delegate and orders a strike.

Then imagine thousands and thousands of wives walking up and down the streets on strike, and scabs taking their places.

The Art of Flirtation
A Two-Act for Two Men
by Aaron Hoffman

Author of “Toblitz, or The End of the World,”
"The New Leader,” “The Son of Solomon,”
"The Speaker of the House,” Etc., Etc.

THE ART OF FLIRTATION

STRAIGHT: Say, whenever we go out together, you always got a kick coming. What’s the matter with you?

COMEDIAN: Nothing is the matter with me.

STRAIGHT: With you always everything is the matter.

COMEDIAN: What’s the trouble?

STRAIGHT: The trouble is you don’t know nothing.

COMEDIAN: Yes, I do.

STRAIGHT: You know! If I only knew one-half of what you don’t know, I would know twice as much as the smartest man in the world.

COMEDIAN: What you got against me?

STRAIGHT: You ain’t a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN: What is a gentlemen?

STRAIGHT: A gentlemen is a man who knows how to act senseless vit people no matter vat happens.

COMEDIAN: I am a gentlemen, I always act senseless.

STRAIGHT: You are a gentlemen! Look at you. How can a man be a gentlemen with such a face like that. There are two kinds of men–gentlemen and rummies. I am a gentlemen, you are a rummy.

COMEDIAN: I am a rummy? I know how to act vit people. Ven you met your friends down the street, vat did you say to them?

STRAIGHT: I said come on and have a drink. I spoke like a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN: And ve all vent to have a drink.

STRAIGHT: Ve did.

COMEDIAN: Didn’t I pay for it?

STRAIGHT: Sure–that shows you are a rummy.

COMEDIAN: No, that shows I was a gentlemen.

STRAIGHT: Dat’s right. In a saloon you are a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN: Sure I am. I act just a bartender.

STRAIGHT: But the trouble with you is you don’t know how to mingle.

COMEDIAN: Oh, I can mingle.

STRAIGHT: You don’t know the first thing about mingling. As a mingler you are a flivver. Among men you are all right, but as soon as I take you out to some parties and dinners and you see some women around, your brains get loose.

COMEDIAN: Why–what do I do?

STRAIGHT: It makes no resemblance what you do or what you say. No matter how you do it–no matter how you say it, the women get insulted. You ain’t got the least consumtion how to be disagreeable to the ladies.

COMEDIAN: Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady. You ought to hear me talk to my wife.

STRAIGHT: To your wife? Any man can be disagreeable to his wife. But tink of other women–the trouble with you is, you have no, as the French people say, you have no savoir faire.

COMEDIAN: No what?

STRAIGHT: I say that you ain’t got no, what the French people call, savoir faire.

COMEDIAN: What’s dot?

STRAIGHT: Savoir faire.

COMEDIAN: Oh, I can salve for fair.

STRAIGHT: You can salve for fair; yes, but you ain’t got no savoir faire. You are not a mingler. You have no vit, no humor. You ain’t got no esprit.

COMEDIAN: Vere do you get all dose words?

STRAIGHT: I get them because I am a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN: Then I’m glad I am a rummy.

STRAIGHT: Sure you’re a rummy. If you wasn’t a rummy, you’d have esprit.

COMEDIAN: Oh, I had a spree lots of times.

STRAIGHT: Not a spree. I mean esprit. I mean you ain’t got no refinement–like me. I got polish.

COMEDIAN: You’re a shine.

STRAIGHT: No, I ain’t a shine. I am a lady killer.

COMEDIAN: One look at you is enough to kill any lady.

STRAIGHT: I am a Beau Brummel. Ven I am with the ladies, I talk to dem vit soft words; I whisper sweet nothings, but you, you rummy you, you don’t know how to make the ladies feel unhappy.

COMEDIAN: How do you make them unhappy?

STRAIGHT: You got to be disagreeable to them.

COMEDIAN: And vat do you do to be disagreeable to ladies?

STRAIGHT: The only vay to be disagreeable to a lady, you got to flirt vit her.

COMEDIAN: Flirt. Vat does that mean flirt?

STRAIGHT: Flirting is a thing that begins in nothing. You say something, you talk like everything and you mean nothing, and it liable to end up in anything. A flirtation is a clan-destination meeting with a lady.

COMEDIAN: Vat kind of a meeting is dot?

STRAIGHT: Don’t you know? Ven you flirt, you meet a pretty woman in a shady spot.

COMEDIAN: Oh, you meet a shady woman in a pretty spot.

STRAIGHT: Not a shady woman. A pretty woman in a shady spot.

COMEDIAN: How do you know so much about flirting?

STRAIGHT: Now you come to it. I got here a book on the art of flirtation. Here it is. (biz. shows book.)

COMEDIAN: What is the name of that book?

STRAIGHT: The art of flirtation. How to make a lady fall in love with you for ten cents.

COMEDIAN: A lady fell in love with me once and it cost me Five Hundred Dollars.

STRAIGHT: That’s because you didn’t have this book. This book tells you how to make love. This book is full of the finest kind of love.

COMEDIAN: For ten cents.

STRAIGHT: Yes, for ten cents.

COMEDIAN: Oh, it’s ten cents love.

STRAIGHT: No, it ain’t ten-cent love. It’s fine love (opens book). See–here is the destructions. Right on the first page you learn something. See–how to flirt with a handkerchief.

COMEDIAN: Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief? I want to flirt with a woman.

STRAIGHT: Listen to what the book says. To a flirter all things have got a language. According to this book, flirters can speak with the eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with the handkerchief, with anything. This book tells you how to do it.

COMEDIAN: For ten cents.

STRAIGHT: Shut up. Now when you see a pretty woman coming along who wants to flirt with you, what is the first thing a man should do?

COMEDIAN: Run the other way.

STRAIGHT: No, no. This is the handkerchief flirtation. As soon as a pretty woman makes eyes at you, you put your hands in your pockets.

COMEDIAN: And hold on to your money.

STRAIGHT: No, you take out your handkerchief. (biz.)

COMEDIAN: Suppose you ain’t got a handkerchief?

STRAIGHT: Every flirter must have a handkerchief. It says it in the book. Now you shake the handkerchief three times like this (biz.). Do you know what that means?

COMEDIAN: (Biz. of shaking head.)

STRAIGHT: That means you want her to give you–

COMEDIAN: Ten cents.

STRAIGHT: No. Dat means you want her to give you a smile. So you shake the handkerchief three times like this (biz.), then you draw it across you mouth like this (biz.). What does that mean?

COMEDIAN: That means you just had a glass of beer.

STRAIGHT: No, dat means “I would like to speak with you.”

COMEDIAN: And does she answer?

STRAIGHT: She got to, it says it in the book.

COMEDIAN: Does she answer you with a handkerchief?

STRAIGHT: Yes, or she might umbrella.

COMEDIAN: Over the head.

STRAIGHT: Sure. If she answers you with de umbrella over the head, that means something. Ven she holds the umbrella over her head, she means that she is a married woman.

COMEDIAN: Den you quit flirting.

STRAIGHT: No, den you commence. If she shakes it dis way (biz.), dat means–

COMEDIAN: Her husband is coming.

STRAIGHT: No. Dat means “You look good to me.” Den you hold your handkerchief by the corner like dis (biz.).

COMEDIAN: Vat does that mean?

STRAIGHT: Meet me on the corner.

COMEDIAN: Och, dat’s fine (takes handkerchief). Den if you hold it dis way, dat means (biz.) “Are you on the square?”

STRAIGHT: You are learning already. You will soon be a flirter. Now I vill show you how you flirt according to the book. You are a man flirter, and I am a beautiful female.

COMEDIAN: You are what?

STRAIGHT: A female. A female.

COMEDIAN: Vat’s dat, a female?

STRAIGHT: A female. Don’t you know what fee means? Fee, that means money. Male, that means man. Female. That means “Get money from a man.” That’s a female. I am a beautiful woman and just to teach you how to flirt, I am going to take a walk thro’ the park.

COMEDIAN: I thought you were a gentlemen.

STRAIGHT: No. No. Just for an instance I am a lady. I will walk past in a reckless way, and I will make eyes at you.

COMEDIAN: If you do, I will smash my nose in your face.

STRAIGHT: No. No. When I make eyes at you, you must wave your handkerchief at me three times. Den you reproach me vit all the disrespect in the world and den you take off your hat and you say something. Vat do you say?

COMEDIAN: Ten cents.

STRAIGHT: No. No. You say something pleasant. You speak of the weather, for instance. You say “Good-evening, Madam, nice day.”

COMEDIAN: Suppose it ain’t a nice day?

STRAIGHT: No matter what kind of a day it is, you speak about it. Now I’m the lady and I am coming. Get ready.

(STRAIGHT does burlesque walk around COMEDIAN. . . . STRAIGHT stops and drops handkerchief.)

COMEDIAN: Say–you dropped something.

STRAIGHT: I know it. I know it. Flirt. Flirt.

(COMEDIAN biz. of pulling out red handkerchief.)

COMEDIAN: I am flirting. I am flirting.

STRAIGHT: What are you trying to do, flag a train? Why don’t you pick up my handkerchief?

COMEDIAN: I don’t need any, I got one.

STRAIGHT: (Picks up handkerchief and turns.) Oh, you rummy you. Why don’t you reproach me and say something about the weather?

COMEDIAN: All right, you do it again.

STRAIGHT: Now don’t be bashful! Don’t be bashful! Here I come (biz. of walk).

COMEDIAN: (pose with hat.) Good evening. Are you a flirter?

STRAIGHT: Oh you fool (gives COMEDIAN a push).

COMEDIAN: Oh, what a mean lady dat is.

STRAIGHT: You musn’t ask her if she’s a flirter. You must say something. De way it says in the book. You must speak of something. If you can’t speak of anything else, speak of the weather.

COMEDIAN: All right, I’ll do it again this time.

STRAIGHT: This is the last time I’ll be a lady for you. Here I come (biz.).

COMEDIAN: Good evening, Mrs. Lady. Sloppy weather we’re having.

STRAIGHT: Sloppy weather! It’s no use; I can’t teach you how to be a flirter, you got to learn it from the book. Listen. Here is what it says. “After you made the acquaintanceship of de lady, you should call at her house in the evening. As you open the gate you look up at the vindow and she will wave a handkerchief like this (biz.). That means, somebody is vaiting for you.”

COMEDIAN: The bulldog.

STRAIGHT: No. The flirtess. “You valk quickly to the door.”

COMEDIAN: The bulldog after you.

STRAIGHT: Dere is no bulldog in this. You don’t flirt vith a bulldog.

COMEDIAN: But suppose the bulldog flirts with you?

STRAIGHT: Shut up. “She meets you at the door. You have your handkerchief on your arm” (biz.)

COMEDIAN: And the dog on my leg.

STRAIGHT: No, the handkerchief is on your arm. Dat means “Can I come in?”

COMEDIAN: And den what do you do?

STRAIGHT: If she says “Yes,” you go in the parlor, you sit on the sofa, side by side, you take her hand.

COMEDIAN: And she takes your vatch.

STRAIGHT: No. You take her hand, den you say: “Whose goo-goo luvin’ baby is oosum?”

COMEDIAN: Does it say that in the book?

STRAIGHT: Sure.

COMEDIAN: Let me see it. (COMEDIAN tears out page.) Den vat do you do?

STRAIGHT: You put her vaist around your arms–

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: Den you squeeze it–

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: She’ll press her head upon your manly shoulder–

COMEDIAN: And den–

STRAIGHT: She looks up into your eyes–

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: You put the other arm around her–

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: You hold her tight–

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: You turn down the gas–

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: She sighs–

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: You sigh–

COMEDIAN: And den?

STRAIGHT: Dat’s the end of the book.

COMEDIAN: Is dat all?

STRAIGHT: Sure. What do you want for ten cents?

COMEDIAN: But vat do you do after you turn down the gas?

STRAIGHT: Do you expect the book to tell you everything?

AFTER THE SHOWER

A TWO-ACT FOR A
MAN AND WOMAN

By
Louis Weslyn

Author of “At the News Stand,” “The Girl and the Pearl,” “An Easy Mary,” “A Campus Flirtation,” Etc., Etc.

AFTER THE SHOWER

CHARACTERS

THE FELLOW   THE GIRL

SCENE: A pretty country lane in One, (Special drop) supposed to be near Lake George. Rustic bench on R. of stage. When the orchestra begins the music for the act, the girl enters, dressed in a fashionable tailor-made gown, and carrying parasol. She comes on laughing, from L., and glancing back over her shoulder at THE FELLOW, who follows after her, a few paces behind. THE GIRL wears only one glove, and THE FELLOW is holding out the other one to her as he makes his entrance. He is dressed in a natty light summer suit and wears a neat straw hat.

THE GIRL: (As she comes on with a little run.) I don’t see why on earth you insist upon following me.

THE FELLOW: (Lifting his hat.) I never knew why I was on earth until I met you. (Waving glove at her.) Say, this is your glove–you know it’s your glove.

THE GIRL: (Laughingly.) It must belong to somebody else.

THE FELLOW: No, it doesn’t. I saw you drop it. Besides, you are wearing only one glove, and this one matches it.

THE GIRL: (Stopping on right of stage near rustic bench and turning to face him, holding out her hand.) You are right. It is my glove. I’ll take it, please.

THE FELLOW: (Stopping to gaze at her admiringly.) No, on second thought, I’ll keep it. (He folds it up tenderly, and places it in the upper left-hand pocket of his coat.) I’ll keep it right here, too,–near my heart.

THE GIRL: Oh, what nonsense! You’ve never seen me but three times in your life.

THE FELLOW: (Coming nearer her.) Yes–that’s true. And you look better every time I see you. Say, you do look awfully nice this morning. Nobody would think, from your appearance, that you belonged to a camping party here on the shore of Lake George. I guess that thunder storm last night didn’t bother you a little bit. Why, you look as if you were out for a stroll on Fifth Avenue.

THE GIRL: (Aside.) Little does he know that I got caught in that shower and am now wearing my chum, Genevieve’s, gown. (To him.) What a jollier you are! You look pretty natty yourself this morning, it seems to me.

THE FELLOW: (Aside.) This suit of clothes I got from Tommy Higgins has made a hit with her. I guess I’ll just let her think they belong to me, and won’t tell her that I got soaked in the rain last night. (To her, lifting his hat again.) I’m tickled nearly to death to have you say such complimentary things to me. It makes me glad I came on this camping trip.

THE GIRL: You belong to the camping party flying the flag of the skull and cross-bones, don’t you?

THE FELLOW: Yes–all the boys are young doctors, except me.

THE GIRL: And what are you?

THE FELLOW: I’m the patient.

THE GIRL: Are you sick?

THE FELLOW: Love-sick.

THE GIRL: (Turning up her nose.) How ridiculous! What brought you to Lake George?

THE FELLOW: You.

THE GIRL: I! Oh, you are too absurd for anything. Give me my glove, please, and let me go.

THE FELLOW: (Coming still nearer.) Don’t be rash. There’s no place to go. All of your camping party have gone on a boating trip except yourself. You’re surely not going back there and hang around the camp all alone?

THE GIRL: (In surprise.) How did YOU know that the rest of my party had gone away for the day?

THE FELLOW: I saw ’em start. Why didn’t you go with ’em?

THE GIRL: I had nothing to wear but this tailor-made gown, and a girl can’t go boating in a dress like this. I only intended to stay two days when I came up here from New York to join the camp, and was not prepared with enough clothes. I’ve sent home for clothes and am expecting them to arrive at the camp this morning– that’s why I didn’t go boating, since you are impertinent enough to ask. (She gives him an indignant look.)

THE FELLOW: I beg your pardon. Won’t you sit down?

THE GIRL: No, I will not. (Still looking quite indignant, she sits down immediately on bench. He sits down beside her.)

THE FELLOW: Neither will I. (He looks at her out of the corners of his eyes, and she turns her face away, nervously tapping the stage with one foot.)

THE GIRL: You seem to know all that has been going on at our camp. I believe you have been spying on us.

THE FELLOW: Not at all. I know one of the girls in your camp.

THE GIRL: (Sarcastically.) Oh, you do! (She tosses her head.) So you have been following me up in order to send some message to another girl. Who is she?

THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.

THE GIRL: (Aside.) I’ll never let him know now that I have on Genevieve’s clothes.

THE FELLOW: But you’re mistaken. I’ve already sent the message. It was about you.

THE GIRL: About me? What about me?

THE FELLOW: I wanted Genevieve to introduce us. Say–you haven’t told me your name yet.

THE GIRL: I don’t intend to. I think you are very forward.

THE FELLOW: Shall I tell you my name?

THE GIRL: By no means.

THE FELLOW: You’re not interested?

THE GIRL: Not a bit.

(There is a pause. She keeps her head turned away. He looks upward and all around, somewhat embarrassed.)

THE FELLOW: (Finally breaking the silence.) Are there any bugs in your camp?

THE GIRL: (Facing him angrily.) Sir!

THE FELLOW: I mean gnats, mosquitoes–things like that.

THE GIRL: Yes. I was badly bitten last night by a mosquito.

THE FELLOW: (Very much interested.) Where did he get you?

THE GIRL: (Laughing.) Well, you are so fresh that I can’t be mad at you. You’re too funny. Since you want to know so much, he got me on the knee. I wasn’t far-seeing enough to bring mosquito netting. It’s a bad bite.

THE FELLOW: Is it possible?

THE GIRL: Don’t you believe it?

THE FELLOW: Well, I’m not far-seeing enough to know for sure. (With a sly glance at her knees.)

THE GIRL: How silly of you! But say–I know a joke on you. I saw you fall in the lake yesterday.

THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) While I was fishing?

THE GIRL: Yes; it was so amusing. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed such a hearty joke. How did you come to fall in?

THE FELLOW: I didn’t come to fall in. I came to fish.

THE GIRL: I also saw that man with the camera over in your camp. What was he dojng?

THE FELLOW: Oh, he was a moving picture man from New York. He was taking moving pictures of our cheese.

THE GIRL: Preposterous! Have you caught any fish since you came?

THE FELLOW: Only a dog-fish, with a litter of puppies.

THE GIRL: (With wide-open eyes.) How interesting! What did you do with them?

THE FELLOW: We made frankfurter sausages out of the little ones, and we are using the big one to guard the camp.

THE GIRL: To guard the camp?

THE FELLOW: Yes–it’s a watch-dog fish.

THE GIRL: Well, I’ve heard of sea-dogs, but I never knew before that–

THE FELLOW: Oh, yes–quite common. I suppose, of course, you heard the cat-fish having a concert last night.

THE GIRL: No–surely you are joking.

THE FELLOW: No, indeed–they were all tom-cats.

THE GIRL: Who ever heard of such a thing?

THE FELLOW: Well, you’ve heard of tom-cods, haven’t you?

THE GIRL: Yes, of course, but–

THE FELLOW: Well, why not tom-cats then? Say, you must be sure to come over to our camp and see the collection in our private aquarium. We have two compartments, and keep the little daughter fish on one side, and–

THE GIRL: The daughter fish!

THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) Yes, and the son-fish on the other. (THE GIRL springs to her feet, angrily.)

THE GIRL: You are simply guying me. I shan’t listen to you another moment. Give me my glove, sir, I demand it.

THE FELLOW: (Also jumping to his feet and grasping her by the arm.) Oh, please don’t get mad. We were getting along so nicely, too.

THE GIRL: (Sneeringly.) “WE” were getting along so nicely. You mean YOU were. I wasn’t.

THE FELLOW: Yes, you were doing FINE. You were listening to me, and I can get along all right with anybody that will listen to me. Besides–ah-ah–fraulein–mam’selle–you know, I don’t know your name–besides I–I–I like you. I–I think you’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever seen.

THE GIRL: (Turning her head away, and releasing her arm from his grasp.) Oh, pshaw! You’ve said that to a hundred girls.

THE FELLOW: No–believe me, I have not. YOU’VE made a mighty big hit with me. I’m hard hit this time. I–

THE GIRL: (Laughing in spite of herself.) Oh, you foolish boy. How can you expect me to believe you? I’ll bet anything that your coat pockets are filled with love letters from other girls this very minute.

THE FELLOW: You are wrong. You are unjust. Clementina, you are–

THE GIRL: (Indignant again.) Clementina! How dare you address me by such a ridiculous–

THE FELLOW: Oh, pardon me. I thought Clementina was quite poetic. Besides, I’ve got to call you something. You do me a terrible injustice. On my word of honor–as a–as a fisherman–I haven’t a love letter in my coat pocket–or anywhere else. I am young, innocent, virtuous and–

THE GIRL: (Bursting into laughter again.) And utterly foolish, I should judge. You are afraid to let me search your pockets.

THE FELLOW: Afraid? Who’s afraid? Me afraid! Well, I’d be tickled to death to have you search my pockets. I dare you to search my pockets. I dare you–understand? (He faces her and throws up his hands over his head.)

THE GIRL: You dare me, do you? Well, I just won’t take a dare. I’ll do it.

THE FELLOW: Go ahead and do it. I repeat, I dare you! If you doubt my word, prove to your satisfaction that I never lie. I dare you!

THE GIRL: (Leaning her parasol against bench, and stepping up to him in very business-like manner.) Very well, then. I accept your challenge. You can’t bluff me out. I believe that ALL men lie when they talk to women, and I am under the impression that you are no exception. Keep your hands up in the air–promise?

THE FELLOW: I promise.

THE GIRL: This is the first time I’ve ever held up anybody, but here goes. (She searches his right-hand pocket.) I don’t suppose you’ve ever been robbed before?

THE FELLOW: Oh, yes–I was once surrounded by a band of robbers.

THE GIRL: (Still searching.) Indeed! On a public highway?

THE FELLOW: (Still holding up his hands.) No, in a New York hotel cafe. They were the waiters.

THE GIRL: (Taking her hand out of right-hand pocket.) Well, there’s nothing in that one but a box of matches. How about this one? (She thrusts her hand into the lower left-hand pocket, and pulls out a letter, written on dainty writing paper.) Ah! this is what I expected to find. Perfumed note paper. (She looks at it critically.) Yes, this is the one–no need to search further.

THE FELLOW: What the devil!–(His hands drop to his sides, and he opens his eyes in amazement.)

THE GIRL: (Turning on him angrily.) Sir–such language!

THE FELLOW: Oh, I beg your pardon–but–but–(He points to letter.) I–I–that letter isn’t mine. I can’t understand how it got into my pocket. I–(Suddenly a look of enlightenment comes into his face. Aside, he says.) By thunder!–I had forgotten all about it. This suit of clothes belongs to Tommy Higgins. Oh, what a mess I’ve made of it. She’ll never believe me now if I tell her I am wearing another fellow’s suit. (To her, excitedly.) Say–listen to me, honestly that letter was not written to me, Tommy Higgins, you see–

THE GIRL: (Waving him aside.) No excuses. You probably thought you didn’t have it with you. Falsehoods are always found out, you see. I was right. You are like all the rest of the men–a born liar–only with this difference–you are a bigger liar than the average. You are really in a class all by yourself. (With the letter held out before her, she scans it eagerly.)

Oh, this is immense!–this is delicious!

THE FELLOW: (Making a grab for the letter.) Give that to me, please.

THE GIRL: Not on your life. It may not be proper to read other people’s letters, but the present circumstances are unusual. I shall certainly read it–and read it aloud. I want to make you swallow every word and see how they agree with you. Listen to I this, you barbaric Ananias. (She reads aloud.) “My beloved Affinity–Come back to town next Saturday without fail. Just slip away from the other boys at the camp. Tell them that an important business matter demands your presence in the city. I am crazy to see you. Life without you is very stupid. Come to me, my dearest, without delay.

  Always your own,
Clementina.”

THE FELLOW: (Collapsing in a heap on the bench.) CLEMENTINA!!

THE GIRL: (Folding up the letter and looking at him in utter scorn.) So that’s where you got the name! So you were thinking of the writer of this letter when you addressed ME by the name of Clementina a while ago. Simply outrageous! (She stamps her feet.)

THE FELLOW: (With a groan.) Oh, Lord! I just happened to say "Clementina” because I thought it was a pretty name. Won’t you believe me? I don’t know who this Clementina is. I never saw the writer of that letter in all my life. That letter was meant for Tommy Higgins. This suit of clothes–

THE GIRL: (Interrupting.) Don’t even attempt to make ridiculous explanations. Don’t make yourself more of a liar than you have already proved. I won’t listen to another word from you. I didn’t want to listen to you in the first place. Here is your affinity’s letter, sir. (She hands it to him. He takes it and stuffs it angrily into the coat pocket.) Now, let me have my parasol, please, and my glove. (She reaches for the parasol, but he catches it up and holds it behind his back, as he rises from the bench.)

THE FELLOW: You shall not go away until you hear what I want to say. Tommy Higgins–

THE GIRL: Oh, bother Tommy Higgins!

THE FELLOW: Yes. That’s what I say–only stronger. But listen, please–

THE GIRL: Don’t discuss the matter further. My parasol and glove; sir! (She is facing him angrily.)

THE FELLOW: Oh, come now. Don’t be so hard on a fellow. I tell you that letter wasn’t written to me. What if I should search your pockets and find a letter that belonged to somebody else? How would you feel about it?

THE GIRL: You would never find anything in MY pockets that I am ashamed of–that is, if I HAD any pockets. But I have no pockets.

THE FELLOW: (Pointing with one hand at the right side of her jacket.) I beg your pardon. It seems that you know how to tell ’em, too. What’s that, if it isn’t a pocket?

THE GIRL: (In embarrassment.) Oh–yes–so it is. (Aside.) I had forgotten that I was wearing Genevieve’s suit.

THE FELLOW: Well, turn about is fair play, isn’t it? I’m going to search your pocket now.

THE GIRL: You mean to insinuate that I have anything in my pocket of a compromising nature? How dare you!

THE FELLOW: You won’t believe ME! Why should I believe you? For all I know, you may be a far different kind of girl than I took you to be.

THE GIRL: (Very angry.) You are insulting, sir. But since I stooped so low as to search your pockets, I will give you the satisfaction of searching mine–and then that will be an end of our acquaintance. You can then go your way–and I’ll go my way.

THE FELLOW: We’ll see about that. Hold up your hands.

THE GIRL: (Darting furious glances at him and holding her hands over her head.) Very well, sir. Hurry up, please, and have it over with. (THE FELLOW very deliberately goes to bench, leans the parasol up against it, just as THE GIRL had done before, and imitating the business-like way in which she had gone through his pockets, he comes up to her and pushes up his coat sleeves, as if preparing for a serious piece of business.)

THE FELLOW: (Still mimicing her manner.) I don’t suppose you’ve ever been held up before?

THE GIRL: (Icily.) No–you are the first burglar I have ever met.

THE FELLOW: Promise to hold your hands up until I have finished?

THE GIRL: (Scornfully.) Of course, I’m a girl of my word.

THE FELLOW: All right then. (He deliberately kisses her squarely on the lips, while her hands are held up over her head. She gives a cry and starts to drop her hands and push him away, but he catches her arms and gently holds them up over her head again.) No, no, I’m not through yet.

THE GIRL: You are a brute. You are not worthy to associate with a respectable girl. (THE FELLOW thrusts his hands into the pocket of her jacket and puns out a box of cigarettes and a letter. He holds them up before her horrified eyes.)

THE FELLOW: Well. I’ll be–(He starts to say “damned,” but stops just in time. THE GIRL’S arms drop limply to her sides, and with eyes staring in complete bewilderment she staggers to the bench and collapses down upon it.)

THE GIRL: Good heavens!

THE FELLOW: (Blinking his eyes at the articles which he holds before him.) What innocent playthings! A box of Pall Malls and a letter–no doubt, an affinity letter. (He shakes his head, soberly.) Well, well! And you just said I wasn’t fit to associate with you.

THE GIRL: (Her breast heaving in great agitation.) Oh, this is a terrible mistake! What could Genevieve have been doing with those things?

THE FELLOW: (Turning on her, quickly.) Genevieve?

THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve.

THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.

THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve Patterson–the girl you know–my best friend. Oh, can’t you understand? Those things don’t belong to me. They are–(She stops abruptly, bites her lips, clasps her hands. Then says, aside.) Oh, what am I doing? I mustn’t allow Genevieve’s reputation to be ruined. I might as well take the blame and brave it out myself. This situation is frightful. (She turns to him again.) I can’t explain, but don’t–oh, please don’t think that I–that I–(She stops, looking as if she is about to cry.)

THE FELLOW: (Again looking at the articles and shaking his head.) And you always looked like such a nice girl, too. Cigarettes–and– (He opens up the letter.)

THE GIRL: (Suddenly springing to her feet.) You must not read that letter. It does not belong to me. You have no right to read that letter.

THE FELLOW: But you read the letter that didn’t belong to me.

THE GIRL: It did belong to you.

THE FELLOW: It didn’t!

THE GIRL: DID!

THE FELLOW: Didn’t!

THE GIRL: (Running forward and trying to grab the letter, which he holds out of her reach.) I forbid you to read that letter. I swear to you, it is not mine.

THE FELLOW: (Still holding it out of her reach and looking it over.) By George! You are right–it is NOT yours. It is MINE!

THE GIRL: YOURS?

THE FELLOW: Yes, mine. It’s the very message I sent to Genevieve Patterson yesterday–the letter in which I asked for an introduction to you. (He hands it to her.) Here–read it yourself, if you don’t believe me this time. (THE GIRL wonderingly takes the letter and reads it to herself, her lips moving and her eyes wide open in surprise.)

THE GIRL: (As she finishes she looks sweetly up at him.) Then you are NOT such a liar after all. You did tell me the truth.

THE FELLOW: Nothing but the truth.

THE GIRL: But what about that other letter?

THE FELLOW: (Taking her by the shoulder and speaking quickly.) Now, you’ve got to listen. That other letter was written to Tommy Higgins. I was caught in the shower last night, and had to borrow this suit of clothes from Tommy.

THE GIRL: (A glad smile gradually coming over her face.) O-h-h!

THE FELLOW: But how did you come to have my letter written to Genevieve?

THE GIRL: Oh, don’t you understand? (She looks at him beseechingly.)

THE FELLOW: (The truth suddenly striking him.) Oh-h-h-! I see! You got caught in the shower, too. You borrowed that tailor-made suit from Genevieve.

THE GIRL: Can you doubt it?

THE FELLOW: But the cigarettes?

THE GIRL: I can’t account for them. I only know–

THE FELLOW: Never mind. I don’t care. (He stuffs the cigarettes into his own pocket and grasps both of her hands in his own.) Tell me–you don’t think I’m the biggest liar in the world, do you?

THE GIRL: (Archly.) No–not quite.

THE FELLOW: (Slipping his arm around her.) And if you were married–to–to a fellow like me, you’d make him an awfully good wife, wouldn’t you?

THE GIRL: (Laughing.). No–I’d try to make HIM a good husband. (He bends over and is just about to kiss her when a MAN’S VOICE is heard off stage to the Right.)

MAN’S VOICE: (Off stage.) Hey, there, Miss–your trunk has come. (THE FELLOW and THE GIRL spring apart, guiltily.)

THE FELLOW: (Bitterly.) Just when I had it all cinched. (THE GIRL runs to the bench, picks up her parasol, still laughing.)

THE GIRL: It’s the wagon from the railroad station, with my clothes from town. Good-bye. (She starts off, Right.)

THE FELLOW: But you’re coming back again?

THE GIRL: Well–maybe–perhaps–If you’re good. (She exits laughing.)

THE FELLOW: She’s got me going. My head’s in a muddle, and I feel like a sailor full of horn-pipes. And that reminds me of Tommy Higgins’ latest song. It goes like this: (Here is introduced comic song. At finish THE GIRL comes running on from Right, dressed in a pretty summer dress, and carrying another pretty silk parasol. THE FELLOW takes his hat off and holding it high over his head, exclaims:) Here comes the rainbow after the shower!

THE GIRL: I must explain to you–I saw Genevieve–the cigarettes belong to her brother, Jack.

THE FELLOW: And I’ve just found out what belongs to me.

THE GIRL: What?

THE FELLOW: You! (He takes her parasol, opens it, and holds it in front of them for an instant so that their faces are hidden from audience. This is music cue for the Conversation Number which brings the sketch to a finish.)

THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER

A TRAVESTY

By
Arthur Denvir
Author of “Busy Isabel,” “How Ignatius Got Pneumonia,” “When Wit Won,” “The War Correspondent,” Etc., Etc.

THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER

CHARACTERS

GLADYS DRESSUITCASE . . . . . A Deserted Wife
ALPHONSO DRESSUITCASE . . . . Her Dying Che-ild
MOE REISS DRESSUITCASE. . . . Her Fugitive Husband
BIRDIE BEDSLATZ . . . . . . . Her Doll-faced Rival
ALGERNON O’FLAHERTY . . . . . The Villain Who Pursued Her

SCENE OF PROLOGUE

STREET IN ONE. . . LIGHTS OUT

Music: “Mendelssohn’s Spring Song,” Played in discords. Spot Light on L. I.

PROLOGUE

Enter GLADYS wearing linen duster and dragging a big rope to which is attached a case of beer with about eight empty bottles in it. She stops C.

GLADYS: (Tearfully.) At last I am almost home. Eleven miles walk from the sweat shop here, and that’s some hoofing it, believe me. (Sways.) Oh, I am faint (Looks over shoulder at beer case.), faint for the want of my Coca-Cola. (Enter ALGERNON R. I–wears slouch hat, heavy moustache, red shirt and high boots. She is facing L.) Oh, I have a hunch I’m being shadowed–flagged by a track-walker! But I mustn’t think of that. (Starts to drag case L.) I must get home to my dying child. He needs me–he needs me. (Exits L. I.)

ALGERNON: (Goes L. C. and looks after her.) It is Gladys–found at last! (Enter BIRDIE L. I. She is in bright red with white plumes and is a beautiful, radiant adventuress. )

BIRDIE: Did you get a good look at her?

ALGERNON: Yes–it’s Gladys and she’s down and out–(Both together:) Curse her!

ALGERNON: Now I can begin pursuing her again.

BIRDIE: Yes, and I can gloat over her misery–and gloating’s the best thing I do.

ALGERNON: Come (fiercely!) We are wasting time.

BIRDIE: She’ll never know me with this dark hair and no make-up on.

ALGERNON: (At L. I–still more fiercely.) Can that junk! Come! (Exits L. I.)

BIRDIE: (Going to L. I.) He has me in his power. I must follow him. Curse him! (Exits after ALGERNON. Enter MOE REISS in bum evening-clothes and opera hat. Carries cane.)

MOE REISS: (Reading from back of envelope.) Down this street and turn into the alley full of ash cans! I’m on the right track at last. Once more I shall see my wife and my little boy! Of course, she’ll be sore because I ran away and deserted her, leaving her no alimony except the dying che-ild. But I must produce a real wife and child from somewhere or I’ll lose the $9.75 my uncle left me. (Goes L. musingly.) Why do I love money so? Ay, that’s the question. (Looking up at gallery.) And what’s the answer? (Points off L. with cane–dramatically.) We shall see–we shall see. (Dashes off L.)

The lights go out, and the Drop in One takes all the time that the clock strikes sixteen or seventeen to go up, so it is timed very slowly.

FULL STAGE SCENE

THE WRETCHED HOME OF GLADYS

A Mott Street Garret–everything of the poorest description. Old table down stage R., with chair on either side and waste paper basket in front. Cot bed down stage L. Old cupboard up stage C. Small stand at head of cot.

PHONSIE lies in cot, head up stage, covered up. He should weigh over two hundred pounds. He wears Buster Brown wig and nightie that buttons up the back. GLADYS is seated at table d. s. R., sewing on a tiny handkerchief. She is magnificently dressed and wears all the jewelry she can carry. Pile of handkerchiefs at back of table within reach and a waste basket in front of table where she can throw handkerchiefs when used.

As curtain rises, the clock off stage slowly strikes for the sixteenth or seventeenth time.

GLADYS: Five o’clock and my sewing still unfinished. Oh, it must be done to-night. There’s the rent–six dollars. To-day is Friday–bargain day–I wonder if the landlord would take four ninety-eight.

(Business. PHONSIE snores.) And my child needs more medicine. The dog biscuits haven’t helped him a bit, and his stomach is too weak to digest the skin foods. (Wood crash off stage.) How restless he is, poor little tot!!!! Fatherless and deserted, sick and emaciated–eight years have I passed in this wretched place, hopeless, hapless, hipless. At times the struggle seems more than I can bear, but I must be brave for my child, my little one. (Buries face in hands.) (Business. Sews.)

PHONSIE: (Business.) Mommer! Mommer! Are you there? (Blows pea blower at her.)

GLADYS: (Hand to cheek where he hit her.) Yes, dolling, mommer is here.

PHONSIE: Say, mommer, am I dying? (Loud and toughly.)

GLADYS: (Sadly.) I am afraid not, my treasure.

PHONSIE: Why not, mommer?

GLADYS: You are too great a pest to die, sweetheart.

PHONSIE: But the good always die young, don’t they, mommer?

GLADYS: (Still sewing.) But you were not speaking about the good–you were speaking of yourself, my precious.

PHONSIE: Ain’t I good, mommer, don’t you think?

GLADYS: (Business.) Oh, I don’t dare to think!!!! (Moves up stage.)

PHONSIE: Don’t think if it hurts you, mommer.

GLADYS: (At dresser.) But come, it is time for your medicine. (Shows enormous pill.)

PHONSIE: (Scared.) What is that, mommer?

GLADYS: Just a horse pill, baby. (Puts it in his mouth.) There, that will help cure mother’s little man. (At table.)

PHONSIE: Gee! That tasted fierce. (Business. Knock.) Some one is knocking, mommer.

GLADYS: They’re always knocking mommer. (At door.)

VOICE: Have yez th’ rint?

GLADYS: I haven’t.

VOICE: Much obliged.

GLADYS: You’re welcome.

PHONSIE: Who was that, mommer?

GLADYS: That was only the landlord for the rent. Alas, I cannot raise it.

PHONSIE: Then if you can’t raise the rent, raise me, mommer. Can’t I have the spot-light to die with?

GLADYS: Why certainly you shall have one. Mr. Electrician, will you kindly give my dying child a spot-light? (Business.) There, dearest, there’s your spot-light.

PHONSIE: (Laughs.) Oh, that’s fine. Mommer, can I have visions?

GLADYS: Why surely, dear, you can have all the visions you want. (Shoves opium pipe in his mouth and lights it.) Now tell mommer what you see, baby!

PHONSIE: Oh, mommer, I see awful things. I can see the Gerry society pinching me. And oh, mommer, I can see New York, [1] and there ain’t a gambling house in the town.

[1] Substitute name of any big city.

GLADYS: He’s blind!!!! My child’s gone blind!!!! (PHONSIE snores.) He sleeps at last, my child, my little dying child!!!! (Enter ALGERNON and BIRDIE.)

GLADYS: (Discovers ALGERNON.) You!!!! (ALGERNON turns to Orchestra and conducts Chord with cane.) (GLADYS Left, ALGERNON C., BIRDIE R.)

ALGERNON: (Chord.) Yes, Gladys Dressuitcase, once more we meet!!!!!

GLADYS: And the lady with the Brooklyn [1] gown!! Ah, you will start, but I know you in spite of your disguise, Birdie Bedslatz.

[1] Substitute name of the local gag town.

BIRDIE: Disguise! What disguise?

GLADYS: Woman, you cannot deceive me. You’ve been to the dry-dock and had your face scraped.

BIRDIE: So, you still want war?

GLADYS: No, I want justice!!!! (ALGERNON conducts Chord.) You have tracked me like sleuthhounds. You have hunted me down after all these years. You have robbed me of home, husband, honor and friends. What then is left me? (L.)

BIRDIE: (Menacingly.) There is always the river.

GLADYS: What, you dare suggest that, you with your past!

BIRDIE: How dare you mention that to me! I am now writing Sunday stories for the New York “American.” [2] (Crosses to left and sits.)

[2] Substitute name of the local sensational newspaper.

GLADYS: (Stunned.) Sophie Lyons, now I see it all.

ALGERNON: (Center.) I have here a mortgage.

GLADYS: A mortgage!!!! What is it on?

ALGERNON: I don’t know. What difference does that make? It is a mortgage. That’s all that’s necessary.

GLADYS: Can it be a mortgage on the old farm?

ALGERNON: (Moves over to R.) Certainly, on the old farm!!!! The dear old homestead in New Hampshire. (Takes paper from pocket. Crosses over to GLADYS.) I have also the paper that always goes with the mortgage. Sign this paper and the mortgage shall be yours, refuse–and–do you mind my coming closer so that I can hiss this in your ear?

GLADYS: Not at all, come right over.

ALGERNON: (Close to GLADYS.) Refuse (Hiss), I say, and you and your child shall be thrown into the streets to starve. (Hiss.)

GLADYS: (Crosses R.) Oh, I must have time to drink–I mean think. But this is infamous. The landlord will–

ALGERNON: I am the landlord. Now will you sign the papers?

GLADYS: No, a thousand times no!!!!! (Chord.) (ALGERNON conducts Chord.) No!!!!

BIRDIE: (Hand to ear.) Good gracious, don’t scream so, where do you think you are?

ALGERNON: You won’t sign?

GLADYS: No, do your worst, throw me into the street with my child. He is sick, dying!!!!

ALGERNON: What’s the matter with him? (Goes to bed.) (PHONSIE is heaving and whistling.) Great heavens, he has the heaves. (Goes R.)

BIRDIE: What are you doing for him?

GLADYS: Trying the hot air treatment.

BIRDIE: I should think you would be expert at that.

GLADYS: The doctor says he has grey matter in his brain.

BIRDIE: (Comes down L.) I am sorry, very sorry.

ALGERNON: Sorry! Bah, this is a cheap play for sympathy! (To GLADYS:) Will you sign the papers?

GLADYS: Never, I defy you: (To BIRDIE.) As for you, beautiful fiend that you are, you came between me and my husband; you stole him from me with your dog-faced beauty; I mean doll-faced. But I can see your finish, I can see you taking poison in about fifteen minutes.

BIRDIE: (Over to ALGERNON.) Put me wise, is this true?

ALGERNON: No, ’tis false, false as hell!!!!! (Points up.)

GLADYS: It’s true, as true as heaven. (Points down.) I swear it.

ALGERNON: (Crosses up to GLADYS.) Why, curse you, I’ll–

GLADYS: (With pistol.) Stand back!!!!! I’m a desperate woman!!!!!

ALGERNON: (Center.) Foiled, curse the luck, foiled by a mere slip of a girl.

BIRDIE: What’s to be done?

ALGERNON: (Yells.) Silence!!!! (Business.) Once aboard the lugger the girl must and shall be mine!!!!

BIRDIE: But how do you propose to lug her there? (ALGERNON moves up to door.)

GLADYS: Oh, I see it all. You have brought this she-devil here to work off her bad gags on me. Man, have you no heart?

ALGERNON: (Comes down C.) Of course I have a heart. I have also eyes, ears, nose, tongue and–

BIRDIE: Brains, calves’ brains–breaded.

ALGERNON: That will be about all from you. Go, leave us!

BIRDIE: Alone?

ALGERNON: Alone!

GLADYS: Alone!

PHONSIE: (In sepulchral tone.) Oh, Gee!

BIRDIE: But it’s hardly decent. You need a tamer.

ALGERNON: Go! (Crosses to R.) Go, I say, before it is too late.

BIRDIE: Oh, there’s no hurry. Every place is open.

ALGERNON: Don’t sass me, Birdie Bedslatz, but clear out, scat!!!!

BIRDIE: Ain’t he the awful scamp? (Starts to door.)

GLADYS: (Clinging to her.) No, you cannot, must not go. Don’t leave me alone with that piano mover.

BIRDIE: I must go. I have poison to buy. (At door.) Ah, Algernon O’Flaherty, if there was more men in the world like you, there’d be less women like me–I just love to say that. Ta–ta. (PHONSIE blows pea-shooter at her as she Exits. She screams and grabs cheek.)

ALGERNON: (To GLADYS back.) So, proud beauty, at last we are alone!

GLADYS: Inhuman monster!!! What new villainy do you propose?

ALGERNON: None, it’s all old stuff. Listen, Gladys. When I see you again, all the old love revives and I grow mad, mad.

GLADYS: You dare to speak of love to me? Why, from the first moment I saw you, I despised you. And now I tell you to your face that I hate and loathe you, for the vile, contemptible wretch that you are.

ALGERNON: (Center.) Be careful, girl! I can give you wealth, money, jewels–jewels fit for a king’s ransom.

GLADYS: (Runs into his arms.) Oh, you can–Where are they?

ALGERNON: They are in hock for the moment, but see, here are the tickets. I shall get them out, anon.

GLADYS: Dastardly wretch!!!!! With your pawn tickets to try and cop out a poor sewing girl. (Up at door.) There is the door, go! (Points other way.)

ALGERNON: (Up to her.) Why curse you, I’ll–

GLADYS: Strike, you coward! (Chord.) (ALGERNON conducts Chord.)

ALGERNON: Coward!!!! (He conducts same Chord an Octave higher.)

GLADYS: Yes, coward. . . . Now go, and never cross this threshold again!!

ALGERNON: (Going up stage.) So, I’m fired with the threshold gag? Very well, I go, but I shall return. . . . I shall return! (Exits.)

PHONSIE: (Blows pea-blower after him.) Who was that big stiff, mommer, the instalment man?

GLADYS: No, darling, he is the floor-walker in a slaughter house.

PHONSIE: Mommer, when do I eat?

GLADYS: Alas, we cannot buy food, we are penniless.

PHONSIE: If you would only put your jewels in soak, mommer.

GLADYS: What, hock me sparks? Never! I may starve, yes, but I’ll starve like a lady in all my finery!

PHONSIE: Mommer, I want to eat.

GLADYS: What shall I do? My child hungry, dying, without even the price of a shave! Oh, my heart is like my brother on the railroad, breaking–breaking–breaking–(Weeps.)

PHONSIE: Ah, don’t cry, mommer. You’ll have the whole place damp. You keep on sewing and I’ll keep on dying.

GLADYS: Very well. (Drying eyes.) But first I’ll go out and get a can of beer. Thank goodness, we always have beer money.

PHONSIE: Oh yes, mommer, do rush the growler. Me coppers is toastin’. And don’t forget your misery cape and the music that goes with you, will you, mommer?

GLADYS: I’ll get those.

PHONSIE: And you’d better take some handkerchiefs. You may want to cry. But don’t cry in the beer, mommer, it makes it flat.

GLADYS: Thank you, baby, I do love to weep. Oh, if we only had a blizzard, I’d take you out in your nightie. But wait, sweetheart, wait till it goes below zero. Then you shall go out with mommer, bare-footed.

PHONSIE: Don’t stand chewing the rag with the bartender, will you, mommer?

GLADYS: Only till he puts a second head on the beer. (Exit R.)

PHONSIE: Gee, it’s fierce to be a stage child and dying. I wonder where my popper is? I want my popper–I want my popper. (Bawls.)

MOE REISS: (Enters.) Why, what is the matter, my little man?

PHONSIE: Oh, I’m so lonely, I want my popper.

MOE REISS: And where is your popper?

PHONSIE: Mommer says he is in Philadelphia. (Sniffles.)

MOE REISS: (Lifts hat reverently.) Dead, and his child doesn’t know. And where is your mama?

PHONSIE: Oh, she’s went out to chase the can.

MOE REISS: And what is your name, my little man?

PHONSIE: Alphonso. Ain’t that practically the limit?

MOE REISS: Alphonso? I once had a little boy named Alphonso, who might have been about your age.

PHONSIE: And what prevented him?

MOE REISS: (Sighs.) Alas, I lost him!

PHONSIE: That was awful careless of you. You oughtn’t to have took him out without his chain. (Sniffs.)

MOE REISS: What’s the matter with your nose?

PHONSIE: I have the glanders–and the heaves. I get all the horse diseases. Father was a race track tout.

MOE REISS: A race track tout? What is your last name?

PHONSIE: Dressuitcase, Alphonso Dressuitcase.

MOE REISS: Dressuitcase? And have you heavy shingle marks on your person, great blue welts?

PHONSIE: You bet I have, and my popper put them there, too.

MOE REISS: Why, it’s my boy, Phonsie, my little Phonsie. Don’t you know me? It’s popper. (Slams him in face hard with open hand.)

PHONSIE: Well, your style is familiar, but you don’t need to show off!

GLADYS: (Enters. Carrying Growler carefully.) Moe! Moe! My husband! (Buries face in can.)

MOE REISS: Gladys! Gladys! My wife! (Takes can from GLADYS.)

PHONSIE: (Comes between them.) Here, I want to have my fever reduced. (Back to bed.)

GLADYS: Where have you been all these years, Moe?

MOE REISS: Just bumming around, just bumming around. When I deserted you and copped out Birdie Bedslatz, I went from bad to worse, from Jersey City to Hoboken. [1] When my senses returned, I was insane.

[1] Local.

GLADYS: My poor husband, how you must have suffered!

MOE REISS: At heart, I was always true to you and our little boy, and I want to come back home.

GLADYS: But tell me, Moe, how are you fixed? (Tries to feel his vest pocket.)

MOE REISS: Fine, I am running a swell gambling joint.

GLADYS: Splendid! Now, Phonsie shall have proper nourishment.

MOE REISS: He shall have all the food he can eat. (Up to bed.)

GLADYS: Yes, and all the beer he can drink.

MOE REISS: Great heavens, I could never pay for that.

GLADYS: Ah, then he will have to cut out his souse. Dear little chap; he loved to get tanked up. Oh look at him, Moe, he is the living image of you. I think if he lives, he will be a great bull fighter. (PHONSIE has finished the beer, and is sucking at a nipple on large bottle marked “Pure Rye.”)

MOE REISS: Then he does take after me–dear little chap. (Hits him.)

GLADYS: Indeed he does. But is it safe for you to come here, Moe?

MOE REISS: Not with Whitman [1] on my trail. You know, Gladys, in the eyes of the world, I am guilty.

[1] Local District Attorney.

GLADYS: Then the world lies. (Chord. ALGERNON comes on from R. I and conducts and then Exits.) I still trust you, my husband, though the police want you for stealing moth balls. (Crash off.) What’s that? (Runs to door.) Oh, it’s the health department. They have come with the garbage wagon to arrest you. Quick, in there. (Points to door R.)

MOE REISS: No, let them come. I am here to see my wife and here I shall remain.

GLADYS: But for our child’s sake. See, he holds up his little hands and pleads for you to go. (PHONSIE in pugilistic attitude.)

PHONSIE: Say, pop, if you don’t get a wiggle on and duck in there, there’ll be something doing. (Business.)

MOE REISS: My boy, I can refuse you nothing. (Exits.)

GLADYS: (At door C.) They are sneaking up, on rubbers! (To PHONSIE.) Lie down, Fido. (Guarding door R. Enter ALGERNON and BIRDIE, Door C.)

ALGERNON: There’s some hellish mystery here!

BIRDIE: You can search me.

ALGERNON: (Sees GLADYS.) Aha! Now will you sign those papers?

GLADYS: Never. (Bus.) I’ll sign nothing. (Down R.)

ALGERNON: (Takes carrot from his hip pocket.) You won’t? There, curse you, take that. (Hits her in neck with carrot.)

GLADYS: In the neck! In the neck, where I always get it!

ALGERNON: (Center.) Quick, Birdie, seize the child and run.

BIRDIE: (Left, looks scornfully at PHONSIE.) You’ve got your nerve. He weighs a ton!!

PHONSIE: Oh! She’s going to kidnap me!! Assistance!!

ALGERNON: Silence!! Enough!! (To GLADYS.) I have just come from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

GLADYS: Well?

ALGERNON: I have reported to them that your child has the heaves.

GLADYS: Well?

ALGERNON: The Society is sending a horse ambulance to take him to the dump.

GLADYS: Dump? To the dump?!!! No, no, it’s a cruel, hideous jest! Take away my little dying boy? It would kill him, you understand, it would kill him!!

PHONSIE: (Toughly.) Sure, it would kill me!! (Bites off big chew of Tobacco.)

ALGERNON: Nevertheless, in five minutes the horse ambulance will be here.

GLADYS: Oh no! no! no! What if my child should die?

ALGERNON: Then they will make glue out of his carcass.

GLADYS: Glue. Aw! (Shakes snow on herself from box hanging over the table L.)

PHONSIE: I don’t want to be no glue, mommer, I’d be all stuck up.

GLADYS: (Goes C. to PHONSIE.) Why this fiendish plot? What have I done that you thus pursue me?

ALGERNON: (R. C.) You repulsed my hellish caresses.

GLADYS: Oh, I will do anything to save my child. I’ll try to love you. . . . I will love! See? (Business.) (Into his arms.) I love you now!

MOE REISS: (Enter, center.) What’s this? My wife in that man’s arms? Oh! (Crosses L.)

GLADYS: (At right, to MOE REISS.) Oh, Moe, I can explain. (Grabs his throat and shakes him.)

MOE REISS: (To GLADYS.) Explain!!! How? I go away and desert you for eight years. (Turns from her and goes L.) In that short absence you forget your husband. (Turns to her.) I return to find you in his arms, before my very nose. (Smashes PHONSIE in face.) (Business.) (He sees BIRDIE.) You, Birdie!

BIRDIE: Yes, I, little Birdie–Birdie on the spot.

MOE REISS: Ah, you she-fiend, you lady demon! (Kisses her.)

GLADYS: (Screams.) No, no! (Runs to him.) It’s all a plot! A hideous plot to part us! This man has complained to the S. P. C. A. that our little Phonsie has the heaves. They are sending a horse ambulance to take him to the dump! They’ll make glue out of his carcass! (To ALGERNON.) You see what you have done! (Beats him on back.) Tell my husband, you devil, tell him the truth!!!

ALGERNON: (To MOE REISS) (C.) Well, if you must know the truth, your wife loves me and was forcing her caresses upon me when you entered.

MOE REISS: It’s true then, it’s true?

PHONSIE: (Sits up.) No, popper, it’s false, and I can prove it.

ALGERNON: The child is delirious from the heaves!

PHONSIE: I’ll heave you out of here in a minute. Listen, popper, mommer’s done the best she could. It ain’t easy to nurse a dying child who is liable to croak at any moment. But she’s done that, popper, she’s often went without her dill pickle so I could have my spavin cure. She thought I might get well and strong and maybe get a job as a safe mover. But I’ve been so busy dying I couldn’t go to work. (Shakes fist at ALGERNON.) Don’t believe that man, popper; I’m dying, cross my heart if I ain’t dying, so I couldn’t tell a lie. (Back to bed.)

MOE REISS: Oh, my boy! My boy! (heart-brokenly.) (Hits PHONSIE.)

GLADYS: Dh, Moe Reiss, don’t you believe him?

ALGERNON: (Left of C.) Of course not, he saw you with your arms around my neck.

MOE REISS: Yes, I saw it, I seen it.

BIRDIE: I can swear to it, if necessary.

PHONSIE: I can swear too, popper, want to hear me?

MOE REISS: No, I have heard enough. Now I intend to act. (Throws off coat, L.)

ALGERNON: What do you mean?

MOE REISS: I mean that either you or I will never leave this place alive. For I tell you plainly, as sure as there is a poker game above us, I mean to kill you!

ALGERNON: (Throws off coat and hat.) Well, if it’s a roughhouse you’re looking for, I’m right there with the goods. (Struggle.)

PHONSIE: Give him an upper cut, popper, soak him!!!

BIRDIE: Knife him, Algernon, knife him! (Has out her hat pin.) (During struggle, PHONSIE shoots three times.) (As they struggle to window, ALGERNON turns back, and PHONSIE sees [after third shot] his vest is a target and fires three times. Bell on each shot.) Curse you, you’ve got me. Here are your three cigars. (Falls dead, C.)

MOE REISS: (Kneels and feels heart.) Dead!!! Who could have done this?

PHONSIE: Father, I cannot tell a lie, I done it with my little hatchet. (Shows big gun and a picture of George Washington. All the others lift American flags and wave them.) (PHONSIE L. waving flag, MOE and GLADYS C. BIRDIE dead in chair R.)

STAR SPANGLED BANNER, FF, AS CURTAIN FALLS

THE LOLLARD
A SATIRICAL COMEDY

BY
EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF
Author of “Youth,” “Little Mother,” “Mon Desir,” “The Locks at Panama," "Lady Gossip,” Etc., Etc.

THE LOLLARD

CHARACTERS

ANGELA MAXWELL   HARRY MAXWELL FRED SALTUS   MISS CAREY

SCENE: The apartment of Miss Carey, a hardworking modiste about 45 years of age, rather sharp in manner, very prudish and a hater of men.

TIME: About 2 A.M.

When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. First, “feminine snores" are heard, then a sharp ringing of bell. Then MISS CAREY from her bed in next room (curtained off, but partly visible) calls out:

MISS CAREY: Who is it?

VOICE: (Off stage.) It’s me. Open!

MISS CAREY: (Poking her night-capped head out of curtains.) Well, who are you?

VOICE: (Off stage.) You don’t know me. But that’s all right. Please let me in–hurry! Hurry!

MISS CAREY: (Rising and getting into a kimono.) Well–whoever you are–what do you mean by waking me at two in the morning? I’ll report this to the janitor. (She turns up light and opens door. ANGELA MAXWELL rushes in–in fluffy peignoir–her hair in pretty disorder–her hands full of wearing apparel, etc., as if she just snatched same up in haste. An opera coat, a pair of slippers, etc.)

ANGELA: (Rushing in–closing door after her and silencing MISS CAREY by the mysterious way she seizes her by the wrist.) Listen, you don’t know me, but I’ve just left my husband.

MISS CAREY: (Sharply.) Well, that’s no reason why I should leave my bed.

ANGELA: (Reassuringly.) You can go right back again, dear–in fact, I’ll go with you and we’ll talk it over there.

MISS CAREY: I don’t wish to talk it over anywhere, and–

ANGELA: Well, surely, you don’t think it was wrong of me to leave Harry–now do you?

MISS CAREY: I never blame any woman for leaving any man.

ANGELA: See, I knew it. After I fired the Wedgewood vase at him–and just for doing it he was brute enough to call me “Vixen,"– I snatched up as much as I could that was worth taking, and left him forever. (Suddenly, as she sees dress on model.) Oh, what a lovely little frock. (Back to other tone.) Yes, forever; and it was only when I stood out in the cold hall that I realized it would have been better to have left him forever when I was all dressed in the morning. (Beginning to shiver and weep.) Take my advice, dear, if you ever leave your husband, never do it on a cold night.

MISS CAREY: (Sharply.) I’m not married.

ANGELA: (Weeping copiously and shivering.) Well, then, you needn’t bother, dear, about the weather, ’cause you never will be married.

MISS CAREY: No, I never will–catch me selling my freedom to any selfish brute of a man.

ANGELA: (As before.) See, I knew it. I said to myself, that little lady on the second floor who makes dresses with a long, thin nose–

MISS CAREY: (Outraged.) Makes dresses with a long, thin nose?

ANGELA: Yes–she’s the only one in the whole apartment house I can go to–she’s the only one won’t give Harry right.

MISS CAREY: No man is ever right.

ANGELA: I’m commencing to believe all men are brutes.

MISS CAREY: Of course they are. (Commencing to thaw.) Have a cup of tea. (She goes to table to prepare tea things.)

ANGELA: Thanks–I brought my own tea with me. (Takes a little paper bag of tea out of one of the slippers and crosses to MISS CAREY.) If I had struck him with the vase, I could understand his calling me “Vixen” (Beginning to weep again.)–but I only flung it at him, ’cause I cracked it by accident in the morning, and I didn’t want him to find it out. He was always calling me “butter-fingers." (Sits at opposite side of table.)

MISS CAREY: Oh, he was always calling you names.

ANGELA: No, that’s all he ever called me–"Butter-fingers.” (Cries again.)

MISS CAREY: (Pouring tea.) Oh, he’s the kind that just loves to stay home and nag.

ANGELA: I’d like to catch any husband I ever get, nag.

MISS CAREY: Oh, a pouter–I know that kind.

ANGELA: Oh, no. Why, every time I insulted him he kissed me–the brute. (After a second’s pause.) But–excuse me–how do you know so many kinds of men if you’ve never been married?

MISS CAREY: (Quickly.) Boarders–to make ends meet, I’ve always had to have a male boarder since I was left an orphan. (She rises–turns her back to audience–gives a touch to her pigtail, during the laugh to this line. This business always builds laugh.)

ANGELA: (Absent-mindedly.) Well, I’ve heard that male boarders are very nice.

MISS CAREY: I’ve never had a nice one yet, but I’ve named nearly all the style male brutes there are. What kind of a brute have you? (She sips tea.)

ANGELA: Why, I don’t know–I’ve often wondered–you might call Harry a “lollard.”

MISS CAREY: A lollard?

ANGELA: Yes, I invented the word, and believe me, a woman suffers with a lollard. (At this, MISS CAREY lets her spoon fall in cup.)

MISS CAREY: I should think she would. How did a sweet young thing like you ever meet such a type of a vertebrate?

ANGELA: At a military ball, and oh Mrs.–

MISS CAREY: Miss Carey.

ANGELA: Miss Carey–he was the handsomest specimen. His hair looked so spick–his shoulders were so big and broad–his teeth so white–and his skin, well, Miss Carey, if you’d seen him, I’ll bet you’d have just gone crazy to kiss him yourself. (MISS CAREY, who is drinking tea, nearly chokes on this–coughing on the tea which goes down the wrong way.)

MISS CAREY: (After the business.) How did he lose his looks?

ANGELA: By becoming a lollard. Listen! (They pull chairs in front of table together, teacups in hand.) It happened on the honeymoon– on the train–as we sat hand in hand, when all at once, the wind through the window, started to blow his hair the wrong way, and oh, Miss Carey, what do you think I discovered?

MISS CAREY: He had been branded on the head as a criminal.

ANGELA: Oh nothing so pleasant as that–but the hair that I thought grew so lovely and plentifully, had been coaxed by a wet brush from the back over the front, and from the east over to the west. (Indicates by imitating action on her own head.)

MISS CAREY: Oh, a lollard is a disappointment of the hair.

ANGELA: No, Miss Carey, no. Listen. I said, “Oh, Harry, your hair which I thought grew so evenly and plentifully all over your head really only grows in patches.” He only answered, “Yes, and now that we’re married, Angela, I don’t have to fool you by brushing it fancy anymore.” In despair, I moaned “Yes, Harry–fool me–go on love, fool me and brush it fancy.”

MISS CAREY; (Rising and crossing R.) That was your first mistake. No woman should ever call any man “love.”

ANGELA: Oh, I didn’t know what I said–I was so busy the whole journey pulling his hair from the back to the front and the east to the west (Same business of illustrating.)–and then, oh Miss Carey, what do you think was the next thing I discovered?

MISS CAREY: (In horror.) His teeth only grew in patches.

ANGELA: No, but I had fallen in love with a pair of tailor’s shoulder-pads–yes–when he took off his coat that night, he shrunk so, I screamed (Pause–as laugh comes here.)–thinking I was in a room with a strange man–but all he muttered was “Angie, I can loll about in easy things now, I’m married"–and that’s how gradually his refined feet began to look like canal-boats–his skin only looked kissable the days he shaved–twice a week–his teeth became tobacco stained–and to-night–to-night, Miss Carey, he stopped wearing hemstitched pajamas and took to wearing canton flannel night shirts. (In depth of woe after the big laugh this gets.) Miss Carey, have you ever seen a man in a canton flannel night shirt?

MISS CAREY: (After an expression of horror.) I told you I am not married.

ANGELA: (Innocently.) Oh, excuse me, I was thinking of your boarders. (MISS CAREY screams “what” and shows herself insulted beyond words.) Is it any wonder my love for him has grown cold? Men expect a woman to primp up for them–we must always look our best to hold their love–but once they wheedle us into signing our names to the marriage contract–they think (Suddenly, seeing dress again.)–Oh Miss Carey, what do you charge for a frock like that?

MISS CAREY: I have no night rates for gowns, Mrs.–

ANGELA: Just call me Angie–’cause I probably will live with you now. (Slips her arm through MISS CAREY’S, laying her head on the older woman’s shoulder.)

MISS CAREY: (Disengaging her.) We’ll talk that over in the morning– if you want, you may sleep upon that couch–I’ll put out the light. (She does so.) I’m going to bed–I must get a little rest. (She gives a sharp turn and goes to her room. Blue light floods stage. Through the half open curtain she is seen having trouble with her bed covers–getting them too high up, then too far down, etc. Big laughs on this business.)

ANGELA: (Taking down hair.) Miss Carey, you said you were an orphan–I’m an orphan, too. (There is no answer.) I can’t tell you how I appreciate your insisting on my staying–let me make your breakfast in the morning, Miss Carey. (No answer.) Harry might at least try to find me. Aren’t men brutes, Miss Carey?

MISS CAREY: (Loudly from within.) They certainly are.

ANGELA: (Lets peignoir slip off her shoulders, is in pretty silk pajamas.) In the morning, I must think how I can earn my own living. (She lies down as snores come from next room.) Miss Carey, are you asleep? (Snore.) Oh dear, she’s asleep before I am–she might have waited. (A key is heard in the door–Angela sits up in alarm–as key turns, she screams.) Oh Miss Carey, wake up–someone’s at the door–wake up. (Miss Carey jumps up and out of bed.)

MISS CAREY: Good Lord–what is it now? (Puts up light–the door opens, and immaculately dressed, handsome young man in evening clothes, white gloves, etc., enters–FRED SALTUS.)

ANGELA: Burglars! (She runs behind curtain of MISS CAREY’S room.)

MISS CAREY: You simpleton. I told you I had a male boarder. This is it, Mr. Saltus.

FRED: Oh, Miss Carey, pardon me–I’d have come in by the back door, but I didn’t know you were entertaining company.

MISS CAREY: I’m not entertaining anyone–I’m trying to get a little rest before it’s time for me to get up–and young lady, if you’ll come out of my room and let me in, I’ll beg of you not to disturb me again. (She shoves ANGELA out in her pajamas, unintentionally knocking her into MR. SALTUS, and goes back to bed.) (Ad. lib. talk.)

ANGELA: (Embarrassed and rushing behind the frock on the dressmaker’s figure.) I’ve made her awfully cross–but I thought it must be a burglar–’cause, you see, I never knew boarders were allowed out so late at night.

FRED: (Recognizing her.) What are you doing here?

ANGELA: (Forced to confess.) I’ve left my husband. (He gives a whistle of surprise.) You know he’s the man on the floor below–you may have seen me with him–once in a great while.

FRED: I’ve seen you often (Delighted.)–and so you’ve left him, eh?

ANGELA: Yes–and I’m really quite upset about it–naturally he’s the first husband I’ve ever left–and you can imagine how a woman feels if you’ve left your husband–that is your wife. (All in one breath.) Are you married?

FRED: No indeed–not a chance.

ANGELA: (Quickly fishes her opera cloak off couch–slips it over her and goes to couch.) Then come here and sit down. (He does so.) I should think the girls would all be crazy about you.

FRED: Oh–they are–are you boarding here too now?

ANGELA: Yes, but Miss Carey doesn’t know it yet.

FRED: Tell me, have you ever noticed me coming in or going out of the building?

ANGELA: Oh yes, indeed–I used to point you out to Harry and show him how you always looked so immaculate and dapper–just as he used to look before we were married. (Starting to weep.)

FRED: Oh, you’ll go back to your home to-morrow.

ANGELA: No–I’ll never enter it again–never again–except for lunch.

FRED: Then you’re planning a divorce?

ANGELA: (As it dawns on her–with a smile.) I suppose it would be well to get something like that.

FRED: Is he in love with another woman?

ANGELA: (Indignantly.) My Harry–I guess not. (His hand is stretched toward her–in anger she slaps it.)

FRED: Then you’ll never get it (Making love to her.) unless you fall in love with another man and let your husband get the divorce.

ANGELA: (Innocently.) I think I’d like that better–I’ll tell Miss Carey (She approaches curtain–a snore makes her change her mind.)–I’ll tell her later.

FRED: I’m awfully glad I’m a fellow boarder here. (He advances to her–as he is about to put his arm about her–suddenly a pounding on door and a gruff voice without:) Open–open!

ANGELA: (In terror.) Oh, it’s my husband–it’s Harry.

FRED: Don’t talk, or he’ll hear you.

ANGELA: I’ll hide–and you open, or he’ll break down the door.

FRED: I’ll have nothing to do with this mixup.

HARRY: (Loudly, without.) Open, or I’ll bang–down–the–door.

ANGELA: If you don’t open, he’ll do it–he’s a regular “door-banger.”

FRED: Well, I’ll not.

ANGELA: Then I’ll get Miss Carey. (Up to curtains again.) Miss Carey–Miss Carey–get up.

MISS CAREY: (Sticking her head out of curtains.) My Gawd, what is it now?

ANGELA: (After struggle as to how to explain.) My husband is here to see us.

MISS CAREY: Confound your husband.

HARRY: (Outside.) I want my wife.

ANGELA: (Pleading.) Oh, Miss Carey, the poor man wants his wife– tell him I’m not here.

MISS CAREY: (Jumping up–to FRED.) You go to your room, Mr. Saltus–I’ll bet you were afraid to open the door. (FRED goes to his room.) And you go into my bed–if he sees you, I’ll never get any sleep.

ANGELA: Don’t hurt my Harry’s feelings, Miss Carey–he’s awfully sensitive. (She goes behind curtains.)

MISS CAREY: No, I won’t hurt his feelings–(Opening door fiercely for HARRY.) What do you want?

HARRY: (Pushing her aside as he rushes in.) My wife–she’s in here.

MISS CAREY: (Following him down.) She’s not here–and you get out–what do you mean by waking me up at this hour?

HARRY: I’ve waked up everybody else in the building–why should you sleep?

MISS CAREY: I’ve never seen you before, but now that I have, I don’t wonder your wife left you.

HARRY: Madam, you look like a woman who could sympathize with a man.

MISS CAREY: With a man? Never–now get out.

HARRY: (Making a tour of the room–she following.) Not till I’ve searched your place–my wife must be here.

MISS CAREY: I don’t know your wife–and I don’t want to.

HARRY: Why, madam–I’m crazy about her–suppose I’m the only man in the world who would be, but she’s my doll.

MISS CAREY: Well, you’ve lost your doll–good night.

HARRY: Oh, I’ll get her back again–but a change has seemed to come over her of late, and to-night she broke out in a fury and hit me violently over the head with a Wedgewood vase.

ANGELA: (Rushing out–ready to slap him again.) Oh Harry, I did not–it never touched you.

MISS CAREY: (Throwing up her hands.) Now I’ll never get to sleep.

HARRY: (Turning on MISS CAREY.) Oh, I understand it all–it’s you who’ve come between us–you designing, deceitful homebreaker.

MISS CAREY: You leave my apartment–you impertinent man.

HARRY: Not without my wife.

ANGELA: Then you’ll stay forever–’cause I’m not going with you. (She sits right of little table.)

MISS CAREY: See here–you argue this out between you–but I’m going to bed–but don’t you argue above a whisper or I’ll ring for the police–the idea of you two galavanting about my apartments. (Going behind curtains.)

(A funny scene ensues between husband and wife–they start their argument in whispered pantomime–she shakes her finger at him–he shakes back at her–it finally grows slightly louder and louder until they are yelling at each other.)

ANGELA: (Screaming.) If you say the vase hit you–you’re a wicked–

HARRY: I don’t care anything about the vase–you’re coming downstairs with me. (He pulls her off chair and swings her R.)

ANGELA: (Falling on couch.) I’m not.

HARRY: (Grabbing her again.) You are.

ANGELA: I’m not. (He tries to pull her to door–she bites his finger, and breaking away, runs up to curtains again.) Miss Carey, Miss Carey, wake up, he bit me. (MISS CAREY dashes out in fury, ANGELA hangs to her.) Oh, Miss Carey, you’re the only one I have in all the world to keep me from this monster. Oh, Miss Carey, pity me, make believe you’re my mother.

MISS CAREY: I told you I’m not married.

ANGELA: Well, think how you’d feel if you were and I were your own little girl and a wicked man was ill-treating me, etc. (She finally touches the mother vein in MISS CAREY.)

MISS CAREY: (Affected.) Go into my room, dear. (She leads her up to bed behind curtains. After Angela disappears behind curtains, MISS CAREY turns–facing HARRY.) I’ll settle with this viper. (Coming down.) Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?

HARRY: Why should I’be ashamed?

MISS CAREY: (Resolutely.) Because you’re a lollard.

HARRY: I’m what?

MISS CAREY: You’re one of those vile creatures whose hair grows from east to west. (Dramatically.) Where are your refined feet now? )

HARRY: (Thinking she’s mad.) What on earth are you talking about?

MISS CAREY: The man she fell in love with and married was spick and span–his shoulders were big and broad–his teeth were white–and his skin–well, if he were standing before me now, I’d be just crazy to kiss him myself.

HARRY: I was all that you say when I married her–that’s how I won her.

MISS CAREY: And now you’re not all that I say–that’s how you lost her. You can’t blame a little woman if she thinks she’s getting a man of gold and she finds she’s got a gold brick.

HARRY: Why, I’m not different now than I was then–only before I was married I was like all men, I did everything to appear at my best– to fool her.

MISS CAREY: Fool her now–we women love to be fooled. We want to be proud of our husbands. Most of us get gold bricks, but we don’t want anyone else to know it.

HARRY: By George, there may be something in all this. How did you come to know it?

MISS CAREY: I’m an old maid, and old maids know more about men than anyone–that’s why they stay old maids. What were you wearing the first time you met?

HARRY: (Reminiscently.) A suit of regimentals.

MISS CAREY: (Hurrying up to door.) Quick, go downstairs and put ’em on and come up as quick as you can.

HARRY: (Looks at himself in glass near door.) By George–you’re right. Oh, Miss Carey, I am a lollard. (He runs off.)

MISS CAREY: You’re a lollard, all right. Now young woman–get your things together and get ready to go–young woman, do you hear me? (She goes up to curtains, and opens them–there lies ANGELA cozily huddled in a heap, fast asleep.) Well, if the little fluff hasn’t fallen asleep. Here–wake up–the idea.

ANGELA: (In her sleep.) Harry, be gentle with Miss Carey–she can’t help it. (MISS CAREY shakes her so she jumps up.) Oh Miss Carey– hello.

MISS CAREY: Now get your things together–your husband is coming for you in a minute.

ANGELA: (A la Ibsen.) I shall never return to Harry again– I’ve left him for life.

MISS CAREY: You’ll not stay here all that time.

ANGELA: (As she comes down, dreamily.) No, I intend to marry another–and oh, Miss Carey, his hair is so spick–his shoulders so broad–his teeth are so white.

MISS CAREY: Good Lord, woman, now you’re commencing with another. Who is it?

ANGELA: Surely you must have foreseen my danger–I’m in love with your boarder.

MISS CAREY: Why, you must be crazy–girl–I won’t let you enter into such a madness.

ANGELA: (In horror.) Oh Miss Carey, don’t tell me you’re in love with him yourself. (MISS CAREY sinks in chair.) But you’ll not get him.

MISS CAREY: Why, my dear, I wouldn’t have him for a birth-day present and neither will you. (After an ad lib. argument.) We’ll see. (She calls off in next room.) Fire! Fire!! Fire!!!

(ANGELA gets scared and starts to run one way as FRED runs in–in canton flannels without toupee, etc., etc. ANGELA flops. After audience has seen FRED’S condition, he realizes presence of ladies and rushes back to door–sticking his head out.)

FRED: Where? Where’s the fire?

MISS CAREY: Go back to your bed, Mr. Saltus. (With a look at ANGELA.) There was a fire.

ANGELA: (Disgusted.) But Miss Carey–has–put–it–out.

(On word “out” she gestures him out of room and out of her life. FRED closes door as he withdraws head.)

ANGELA: Oh Miss Carey, what an awful lollard that is. (There is a ring at bell.)

(Music commences sweet melody.)

MISS CAREY: (Knowing it is HARRY.) Open the door and see who it is.

(ANGELA opens the door–HARRY stands there in regimentals–handsome, young and dapper. ANGELA falls back in admiration.)

HARRY: Angela.

ANGELA: Oh, Harry darling!

MISS CAREY: He does look good!

ANGELA: (As she picks up her belongings.) I’m going home with you.

MISS CAREY: (As ANGELA goes up to HARRY.) Don’t forget your tea dress. (Hands her the little bag.)

ANGELA: I’m so tired, Harry–take me home. (He lifts his tired little wife up in his arms and as he goes out, she mutters:) You’re not such a bad lollard after all.

MISS CAREY: (Going to put out light.) Now, thank Gawd, I’ll get a little sleep.

CURTAIN FALLS

BLACKMAIL
A ONE-ACT PLAY
BY
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

Author of “Van Bibber Stories,” “Soldiers of Fortune," The Playlets, “The Littlest Girl,” played by Robert Hilliard for ten years, “Miss Civilization,” etc., and many full-evening plays.

BLACKMAIL

CHARACTERS

RICHARD FALLON, a millionaire mine owner. "LOU” MOHUN, a crook. KELLY, a Pinkerton detective. MRS. HOWARD:

SCENE

The scene shows the interior of the sitting room of a suite in a New York hotel of the class of the Hotel Astor or Claridge. In the back wall a door opens into what is the bedroom of the suite. The hinges of this door are on the right, the door knob on the left. On the wall on either side of the door is hung a framed copy of a picture by Gibson or Christy. In the left wall, half way down, is a door leading to the hall. Higher up against the wall is a writing desk on which are writing materials and a hand telephone. Above this pinned to the wall is a blue-print map. In front of the desk is a gilt chair without arms. Above and to the right of the gilt chair is a Morris chair facing the audience. In the seat of the chair is a valise; over the back hangs a man’s coat.

In the right wall are two windows with practical blinds. Below them against the wall, stretches a leather sofa. On it is a suitcase, beside it on the floor a pair of men’s boots. Below the sofa and slightly to the left stands a table, sufficiently heavy to bear the weight of a man leaning against it. On this table are magazines, a man’s sombrero, a box of safety matches, a pitcher of ice water and a glass, and hanging over the edge of the table, in view of the audience, are two blue prints held down by pieces of ore. The light that comes through the two windows is of a sunny day in August.

WHEN THE CURTAIN RISES

RICHARD FALLON is discovered at table arranging the specimens of ore upon the blue prints. He is a young man of thirty-five, his face is deeply tanned, his manner is rough and breezy. He is without a coat, and his trousers are held up by a belt. He is smoking a cigar.

FALLON crosses to Morris chair, opens valise, turns over papers, clothing, fails to find that for which he is looking and closes the valise. He recrosses to suit case which is at lower end of the sofa. He breaks it open and searches through more papers, shirts, coats. Takes out another blue print, tightly rolled. Unrolls it, studies it, and apparently satisfied, with his left hand, places it on table.

In attempting to close the suit case the half nearer the audience slips over the foot of the sofa, and there falls from it to the floor, a heavy “bull dog” revolver. FALLON stares at it, puzzled, as though trying to recall when he placed it in his suit case. Picks it up. Looks at it. Throws it carelessly into suit case and shuts it. His manner shows he attaches no importance to the revolver. He now surveys the blue prints and the specimens of ore, as might a hostess, who is expecting guests, survey her dinner table. He crosses to hand telephone.

FALLON: (To ’phone.) Give me the room clerk, please. Hello? This is Mr. Fallon. I’m expecting two gentlemen at five o’clock. Send them right up. And, not now, but when they come, send me up a box of your best cigars and some rye and seltzer. Thank you. (Starts to leave telephone, but is recalled.) What? A lady? I don’t know any. I don’t know a soul in New York! What’s her name? What–Mrs. Tom Howard? For heaven’s sake! Tell her I’ll be there in one second! What? Why certainly! Tell her to come right up. (He rises, muttering joyfully.) Well, well, well!

(Takes his coat from chair and puts it on. Lifts valise from chair and places it behind writing desk. Kicks boots under sofa. Places cigar on edge of table in view of audience. Looks about for mirror and finding none, brushes his hair with his hands, and arranges his tie. Goes to door L. and opens it, expectantly.)

MRS. HOWARD enters. She is a young woman of thirty. Her face is sweet, sad, innocent. She is dressed in white–well, but simply. Nothing about her suggests anything of the fast, or adventuress type.

Well, Helen! This is fine! God bless you, this is the best thing that’s come my way since I left Alaska. And I never saw you looking better.

MRS. HOWARD: (Taking his hand.) And, it’s good to see you, Dick. (She staggers and sways slightly as though about to faint.) Can I sit down? (She moves to Morris chair and sits back in it.)

FALLON: (In alarm.) What is it? Are you ill?

MRS. HOWARD: No, I’m–I’m so glad to find you–I was afraid! I was afraid I wouldn’t find you, and I had to see you. (Leaning forward, in great distress.) I’m in trouble, Dick–terrible trouble.

FALLON: (Joyfully.) And you’ve come to me to help you?

MRS. HOWARD: Yes.

FALLON: That’s fine! That’s bully. I thought, maybe, you’d just come to talk over old times. (Eagerly.) And that would have been fine, too, understand–but if you’ve come to me because you’re in trouble, then I know you’re still my good friend, my dear old pal. (Briskly.) Now, listen, you say you’re in trouble. Well, you knew me when I was down and out in San Francisco, living on free lunches and chop suey. Now, look at me, Helen, I’m a bloated capitalist. I’m a millionaire.

MRS. HOWARD: (Nervously.) I know, Dick, and I’m so glad! That’s how I knew you were here, I read about you this morning in the papers.

FALLON: And half they said is true, too. See those blue prints? Each one of them means a gold mine, and at five, I’m to unload them on some of the biggest swells in Wall Street. (Gently.) Now, all that that means is this: I don’t know what your trouble is, but, if money can cure it, you haven’t got any trouble.

MRS. HOWARD: Dick, you’re just as generous and kind. You haven’t changed in any way.

FALLON: I haven’t changed toward you. How’s that husband of yours? (Jokingly.) I’d ought to shot that fellow.

MRS. HOWARD: (In distress.) That’s why I came, Dick. Oh, Dick–

FALLON: (Anxiously, incredulously.) Don’t tell me there’s any trouble between you and Tom? Why, old Tom he just worships you. He loves you like–

MRS. HOWARD: That’s it. And I want to keep his love.

FALLON: (Laughingly.) Keep his love? Is that all you’ve got to worry about? (Throughout the following scene, Mrs. Howard speaks in a fateful voice, like a woman beaten and hopeless.)

MRS. HOWARD: Dick, did you ever guess why I didn’t marry you?

FALLON: No, I knew. You didn’t marry me because you didn’t love me, and you did love Tom.

MRS. HOWARD: No, I didn’t know Tom then. And I thought I loved you, until I met Tom. But I didn’t marry you, because it wouldn’t have been honest–because, three years before I met you, I had lived with a man–as his wife.

FALLON: Helen! (His tone is one of amazement, but not of reproach. In his astonishment, he picks the cigar from the table, puffs at it standing and partly seated on the table.)

MRS. HOWARD: (In the same dead level, hopeless voice.) I was seventeen years old. I was a waiter girl at one of Fred Harvey’s restaurants on the Santa Fe. I was married to this man before a magistrate. (Fallon lifts his head.) Three months later, when he’d grown tired of me, he told me the magistrate who had married us was not a magistrate but a friend of his, a man named Louis Mohun, and he brought this man to live with us. I should have left him then, that was where I did wrong. That was all I did that was wrong. But, I couldn’t leave him, I couldn’t, because I was going to be a mother–and in spite of what he had done–I begged him to marry me.

FALLON: And–he wouldn’t?

MRS. HOWARD: Maybe he would–but–he was killed.

FALLON: (Eagerly.) You?

MRS. HOWARD. (In horror.) God, no!

FALLON: It’s a pity. That’s what you should have done.

MRS. HOWARD: He was a gambler, one night he cheated–the man he cheated, shot him. Then–my baby–died! After two years I came to San Francisco and met you and Tom. Then you went to Klondike and I married Tom.

FALLON: And, you told Tom?

MRS. HOWARD: (Lowering her face.)

FALLON: Helen!

MRS. HOWARP: I know, but I was afraid. I loved him so, and I was afraid.

FALLON: But Tom would have understood. Why, you thought you were married.

MRS. HOWARD: I was afraid. I loved him too much. I was too happy, and I was afraid I’d lose him. (FALLON shakes his head.) But, we were leaving San Francisco forever–to live in the East–where I thought no one knew me.

FALLON: Well?

MRS. HOWARD: Well, one man knew me. Mohun, the man who played the magistrate. He came East, too. Three years ago he saw me one night with Tom in a theatre. He followed us and found out where I lived. The next morning he came to see me, and threatened to tell! And, I was terrified, I lost my head and gave him money. (Slowly.) And I have been giving him money ever since.

FALLON: Helen! You! Fall for blackmail? Why, that isn’t you. You’re no coward! You should have told the swine to go to Hell, and as soon as Tom came home, you should have told him the whole story.

MRS. HOWARD: (Fiercely.) My story, yes! But not a story Mohun threatens to tell! In a week he had it all backed up with letters, telegrams, God knows what he didn’t make me out to be–a vile, degraded creature.

FALLON: And who’d have believed it?

MRS. HOWARD: Everybody! He proved it! And my children. He threatened to stop my children on the way to school and explain to them what kind of a woman their mother was. So, I paid and paid and paid. I robbed Tom, I robbed the children. I cheated them of food, and clothes, I’ve seen Tom look almost ashamed of us. And when I’d taken all I’d dared from Tom, I pretended I wanted to be more independent, and I learned typewriting, and needlework and decorating, and I worked at night, and when Tom was at the office–to earn money–to give to Mohun. And each time he said it was the last, and each time he came back demanding more. God knows what he does with it, he throws it away–on drink, on women, opium.

FALLON: Dope fiend, too, hey?

MRS. HOWARD: He’s that, too; he’s everything that’s vile; inhuman, pitiless, degenerate. Sometimes, I wonder why God lets him live. (Her voice drops to a whisper.) Sometimes, I almost pray to God to let him die. (FALLON who already has determined to kill MOHUN, receives this speech with indifference, and continues grimly to puff on his cigar.) He’s killed my happiness, he’s killing me. In keeping him alive, I’ve grown ill and old. I see the children growing away from me, I see Tom drawing away from me. And now, after all my struggles, after all my torture, Tom must be told. Mohun is in some new trouble. He must have a thousand dollars! I can no more give him a thousand dollars than I can give him New York City. But, if I don’t, he’ll tell! What am I to do?

FALLON: (Unmoved.) When did you see this–this thing last?

MRS. HOWARD: This morning. He’d read about you in the papers. He knows I knew you in San Francisco. He said you’d “struck it rich,” and that you’d give me the money. (Rises, and comes to him.) But, get this straight, Dick. I didn’t come here for money. I don’t want money. I won’t take money. I came to you because you are my best friend, and Tom’s best friend, and because I need a man’s brain, a man’s advice.

FALLON: (Contemptuously.) Advice! Hell! Am I the sort of man that gives girls–advice? (With rough tenderness.) Now, you go home to Tom, and tell him I’m coming to dinner. (Impressively.) And leave this leech to me. And, don’t worry. This thing never happened, it’s just a bad dream, a nightmare. Just throw it from your shoulders like a miner drops his pack. It’s never coming back into your life again.

MRS. HOWARD: (Earnestly.) No! I won’t let you pay that man! He’d hound you, as he’s hounded me!

FALLON: (Indignantly.) Pay him? Me? I haven’t got enough money to pay him!

MRS. HOWARD: What!

FALLON: No man on earth has money enough to pay blackmail. Helen, this is what I think of a blackmailer: The lowest thing that crawls, is a man that sends a woman into the streets to earn money for him. Here, in New York, you call them “cadets.” Now, there’s only one thing on earth lower than a cadet, and that’s the blackmailer, the man who gets money from a woman–by threatening her good name–who uses her past as a club–who drags out some unhappy act of hers for which she’s repented, in tears, on her knees, which the world has forgotten, which God has forgiven. And, for that past sin, that’s forgotten and forgiven, this blackguard crucifies her. And the woman–to protect her husband and her children, as you have done–to protect her own good name, that she’s worked for and won, starves herself to feed that leech. And, you ask me, if I’m going to feed him, too! Not me! Helen, down in lower California, there are black bats, the Mexican calls "Vampire” bats. They come at night and fasten on the sides of the horses and drink their blood. And, in the morning when you come to saddle up, you’ll find the horses too weak to walk, and hanging to their flanks these vampires, swollen and bloated and drunk with blood. Now, I’ve just as much sympathy for Mr. Mohun, as I have for those vampires, and, I’m going to treat him just as I treat them! Where is he?

MRS. HOWARD: Downstairs. In the cafe.

FALLON: Here, in this hotel?

MRS. HOWARD: Yes.

FALLON: (Half to himself.) Good!

MRS. HOWARD: He said he’d wait until I telephoned him that you would pay. If you won’t, he’s going straight to Tom.

FALLON: He is, is he? Helen, I hate to have you speak to him again, but, unless he hears your voice, he won’t come upstairs. (Motions towards telephone.) Tell him I’ll see him in ten minutes. Tell him I’ve agreed to make it all right.

MRS. HOWARD: But, how, Dick, how?

FALLON: Don’t you worry about that. I’m going to send him away. Out of the country. He won’t trouble you any more.

MRS. HOWARD: But he won’t go. He’s promised me to go many times–

FALLON: Yes, but he’s not dealing with a woman, now, he’s dealing with a man, with boots on. Do as I tell you.

(MRS. HOWARD sits at writing desk and takes receiver off telephone. FALLON leans against table right, puffing quickly on his cigar, and glancing impatiently at the valise that holds his revolver.)

MRS. HOWARD: Give me the cafe, please. Is this the cafe? I want to speak to a Mr. Mohun, he is waiting to be called up–oh, thank you. (To FALLON.) He’s coming. (To ’phone.) I have seen that man and he says he’ll take up that debt, and pay it. Yes, now, at once. You’re to wait for ten minutes, until he can get the money, and then, he’ll telephone you to come up. I don’t know, I’ll ask. (To Fallon.) He says it must be in cash.

FALLON: (Sarcastically.) Why, certainly! That’ll be all right. (MRS. HOWARD Places her hand over the mouth piece.)

MRS. HOWARD: I’ll not let you pay him!

FALLON: I’m not going to! I’m going to give him just what’s coming to him. Tell him, it’ll be all right.

MRS. HOWARD: (To ’phone.) He says to tell you, it’ll be all right. The room is 210 on the third floor. In ten minutes, yes. (She rises.)

FALLON: Now, then, you go back to Tom and get dinner ready. Don’t forget I’m coming to dinner. And the children must come to dinner, too. We’ll have a happy, good old-time reunion.

MRS. HOWARD: (With hand on door knob of door left.) Dick, how can I thank you?

FALLON: Don’t let me catch you trying.

MRS. HOWARD: God bless you, Dick. (With a sudden hope.) And you really believe you can make him go?

FALLON: Don’t worry! I’m sure of it.

MRS. HOWARD: And, you think he won’t come back?

FALLON: (After a pause, gravely.) I know he won’t come back.

MRS. HOWARD: God bless you, Dick!

FALLON: See you at dinner.

(MRS. HOWARD exits. FALLON stands considering, and chewing on his cigar. Then, he crosses room briskly and lowers the blind at each window. Opens valise and examines revolver. Places the revolver in his left hip pocket. Then, in a matter-of-course manner from his right hand pocket, he draws his automatic pistol. This, as though assured he would find loaded, he examines in a quick, perfunctory way, and replaces. He crosses left to desk, and taking from it a cheque book, writes out a cheque, which he tears from the book, and holds in his right hand. With left hand he removes the receiver from the telephone.)

Give me Murray Hill 2828. Hello, is this the Corn and Grain Bank? I want to speak to the cashier. Hello, is that the