ACT IV.

SCENE:—_A grass plat with trees in background._

_ENTER MR. and MRS. TWIGGS, R. 1._

MRS. T. We must find them; blood will be shed and, oh dear! Mr. Topp may be killed!

MR. T. Sophronia, duels are not for the purpose of shedding blood. They are for the vindication of wounded honor.

MRS. T. Josiah, human life is trembling in the balance, and I believe you actually enjoy it.

MR. T. My dear, I can’t say that I enjoy it so far. Our walk in search of it has been rather hurried. They should have hired a hall and sold tickets.

MRS. T. Josiah, you’ll drive me to the grave. But if you do not respect the feelings of the wife of your bosom think of your child.

MR. T. Our child is all right. She is not going to fight.

MRS. T. But think of her future?

MR. T. Which future, my dear? There appears to be two of him.

MRS. T. Josiah, you stand here talking while every moment is a question of life or death.

MR. T. (_Coolly._) I’m waiting for developments, dear.

MRS. T. Developments, indeed! Do you think they will come to you? They may be in the dells.

MR. T. No, this is the right spot. All our high-class affairs occur here. Capt. Throckmugger died at the foot of that tree just over there.

MRS. T. Mercy! Josiah, how can you speak of blood! You want to kill me?

MR. T. Sophronia, dear, I disclaim—

MRS. T. (_Pulling him away._) Come along, we must find them! To the dells! Quick! (_Exeunt, L._)

_ENTER excitedly ANGIE and MRS. T-K. R. 1._

MRS. T-K. I’m sure I heard voices!

ANGIE. But there is nobody in sight. Sister, do you think our coming here is exactly proper?

MRS. T-K. True love dares all for duty.

ANGIE. Yes, but isn’t our affection rather recent to be put to such a test.

MRS. T-K. Recent! Love knows nothing of time or place when its object is in danger.

ANGIE. It is _so_ romantic. Is there really any danger?

MRS. T-K. Duels are sometimes in earnest, and Mr. Topp is a dead shot they say.

ANGIE. Horrid old thing! Poor Mr. Tick!

MRS. T-K. Dear Mr. Topp!

ANGIE. Mr. Topp is a blood-thirsty old monster. I don’t like him one bit, there now!

MRS. T-K. Brave man, he is fighting for you, and thus you repay his gallantry.

ANGIE. (_Petulantly._) I don’t want him to fight for me. Oh, if Mr. Tick should be hurt.

MRS. T-K. Mr. Tick is a villain.

ANGIE. Mr. Topp is a fool; a little blood-letting would do him good.

MRS. T-K. Sister, don’t mention blood, I shall expire. I know I shall. Dear me, what a snarl things are in. We must stop this duel. Dear Mr. Topp!

ANGIE. Adorable Mr. Tick!

MRS. T-K. They may have gone to the dells. Let’s go there (_Exit, running L._)

ANGIE. Wait, sister! (_Exit, following, L._)

_ENTER TICK and GINGER, R._

(_Ginger carries large pair of corn knives or, as known to farmers, “corncutters,” in a gunny sack._)

TICK. Ginger, I don’t like the looks of those corncutters. How do you use them?

GIN. You jes cut an’ slash, that’s all. (_Business with knife._)

TICK. But suppose old Topp gets his slash in first. Where am I?

GIN. Say, looky hyah, Mistah Tick, do you like dat gal well enough to fight fur ’er?

TICK. (_Swaggering._) I’d die for her. I’d wade through—

GIN. Never mind de wadin’! Keep youah shoes on an’ listen to Ginger Potts. Ye want to play a big bluff, don’t ye?

TICK. Yes.

GIN. An’ I get ten dollars if de bluff goes?

TICK. That’s right.

GIN. Then you do jes as Ginger Potts tells you. If massa ever find dis job out he’ll jes naterally skin me. I wouldn’t have him know it fur de purtiest twenty-five dollar bill you ever see. Nosiree! Ye see, Mistah Tick, when Cadwalader Topp sees dem corncutters he’ll be too mad to fight. He’ll be madder’n a wet hen. He’ll say dem weepons is unnateral an’ outrageous an’ sich as no gentleman kin use. You got de right to choose de weepins. He raises a bushel of objections an’ you insists. Den you see dah’s no jewel because de gemmen can’t agree on weepins. Ye’s both saved yer honah an’ youah hides.

TICK. That’s a great scheme, Ginger. But suppose he agrees to the weapons. I don’t like the looks of his eye.

GIN. (_Puzzled._) Dat’s an extreme case, but if it comes to extreemities, an’ not till den min’ ye, call fur me an’ say you have to insult me.

TICK. Why should I insult you?

GIN. Doesn’t every gentleman insult his second?

TICK. Oh, I see, _consult_.

GIN. Exactly! Dat’s what I said! When ole massa sees me he’ll be consulted. ’Cause ye see I’m a nigger an’ a nigger aint no gentleman. He’ll jes have more dignity than a pew full o’ deacons and walk off consulted.

TICK. Wont that get you into trouble?

GIN. Well, ole massa’ll storm ’round an’ threaten to lam me, but he wont even tech me ’case massa’s a gentleman an’ I’ve been in de family three generations!

TICK. Oh you prevaricator!

GIN. A what! Say dat again. I didn’t quite git dat.

TICK. You’re not over twenty-five years old.

GIN. Twenty-five las fall come a year. But ye see my gran’mammy she was in de family, dat’s one generation; and my mammy she was Mr. Topp’s nurse, dat’s two generations, ain’t it? An’ I was one generation, aint I?

TICK. There’s no doubt of it.

GIN. All right, I ain’t no great scholar, but I know three times one is three times.

TICK. All right! I hear voices. Skip into the bushes and I’ll say my second is looking for a surgeon. (_Exit GIN. hastily, L._)

_ENTER MR. TOPP, SPRATT and very dignified Surgeon, R. Latter carries case of instruments, which he leisurely unpacks, showing a very formidable saw, etc._

TOPP. (_To TICK._) Ah, prompt, I see. Where is your second?

TICK. He is delayed a little looking for a surgeon. I expect him momentarily.

TOPP. That is unfortunate. Quick work here is the order. We are liable to interruption from the police. We have brought a surgeon, Dr. Short.

TICK. Let your man Spratt and Doctor Short arrange details, I’m indifferent.

TOPP. (_Haughtily._) This is no place for a display of generosity, sir. This is very irregular and time is pressing.

SPRATT. I see no objection to stepping the ground, for example if Dr. Short will stand for Mr. Tick.

TOPP. Very irregular, very. What do you say, Dr. Short?

DR. S. (_Very formal and dignified._) I coincide, sir. It is highly irregular, I might add, perhaps, unprecedented. Had I the pleasure of the acquaintance of your opponent—

TOPP. (_Bowing low._) I beg your pardon! I forget you were not acquainted! Mr. Tick, I have the pleasure of introducing Dr. Short. Dr. Short, Mr. Tick. Mr. Tick, Dr. Short. (_They bow._)

DR. SHORT. (_Judicially and with great dignity._) I think I may lay it down as an axiom of the code that one gentleman _may_—I say _may_—stand at all times for any other gentleman. Now, the fact that the gentleman’s second is absent looking for a surgeon must be considered a valid reason for delay and consequently _may_—I say advisedly _may_—allow slight alterations of previous plans. My decision, then, is that your humble servant might with absolute propriety—I say _might_ advisedly—stand temporarily for the absent second of Mr. Tick. (_Bows to TICK._) I am at your service, sir. I consent, to satisfy honor.

SPRATT. Very well, then let’s step thirty paces! (_Business of measuring._)

TICK. (_Chuckles aside._) That’s a safe distance.

SPRATT. Now for choice of position. Heads or tails? (_Produces coin._)

DR. SHORT. (_Solemnly._) Heads.

SPRATT. (_Tossing._) Heads it is!

SHORT. (_Tosses._) Tails!

SPRATT. (_Tossing._) Heads it is! Your man gets the advantage of the light. (_To TICK._) Let us examine your weapons. Are they loaded?

TICK. (_Producing knives from sack._) They are! (_All start at sight of knives._)

TOPP. (_Surprised._) What in time are those implements?

TICK. The weapons.

TOPP. Why, confound you, sir, I wont fight with a butcher’s cleaver.

SPRATT. Corncutters, I beg your pardon.

TOPP. A vulgar agricultural implement. I won’t fight with them.

TICK. I insist. I have the right to choose the weapons.

TOPP. But only gentlemen’s weapons. I’ll have you understand, sir, that I do not choose to be hacked to pieces with a sausage machine. Dr. Short, I appeal to you.

DR. SHORT. (_With great deliberation._) Your objection is reasonable, and I may add, most weighty. This uncouth weapon is unusual, and—and, _vulgar_, I use the word vulgar advisedly in the sense of _common_, without casting any reflection on this humble but useful agricultural tool.

TICK. Gentlemen, _my_ second pronounces the weapons all right.

TOPP. A most remarkable second, sir! I’d like to see him. Why doesn’t he appear.

TICK. I think I see him coming now. (_Hellos off R._) Hello! Hey! Hurry up there.

_ENTER GIN. R._

TOPP. (_Astonished, falls back._) A niggro!

SPRATT. (_Repeats._) A nigger.

DR. SHORT. (_With disgust._) A niggro. This is no place for a gentleman. (_Begins to pack his kit._)

TICK. Isn’t he a man and brother?

TOPP. (_Furious._) This is insufferable! This is a gross insult to be atoned at once. (_Seizes one of corn knives._) I accept the weapons! Take your place. At the word three, advance and defend yourself. I’ll make shoe strings out of you, sir. (_Vehemently._) I will, on my life I will!

SPRATT. One, two, three!

TOPP. Come on. (_Makes pass at TICK who easily eludes him. Business of TOPP chasing TICK around the stage, his movements those of a heavy, stiff man. TICK easily eludes him, and makes no effort at defense. Business, ad lib._)

_ENTER TWIGGS suddenly, R._

TWIGGS. Hello! What’s this? I expected a duel and here’s a sprinting match. (_Laughs heartily. Looks at TOPP._) Why, Topp, what is that you hold in your hand? An oyster opener? (_TOPP and TWIGGS R. SHORT and SPRATT up C. TICK L., GIN. behind him._)

TOPP. Do you dare poke fun at me, sir. Don’t do it again. You laugh again at your peril.

TWIGGS. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to talk shop, my cachinatory muscles are subject to spasmodic movements. But what are you doing?

TOPP. (_Throws it away in disgust._) That man had the impudence to bring a sausage knife on these hallowed precincts.

TICK. Pardon me! A corncutter!

SPRATT. No gentleman would propose a corncutter as a decent weapon.

TWIGGS. Quite right! We’ll have none of them. They are perfectly absurd! Fit only for niggros. Nothing like hair triggers. (_Steps toward C._) Has any gentleman a brace of pistols? I think I can arrange all to the satisfaction of the company.

SPRATT. (_Comes down C._) I brought a pair for alternatives. (_Produces them from case._)

TWIGGS. Ah, beauties!

TICK. I object to hair triggers!

TWIGGS. On what grounds, sir?

TICK. They might go off.

TWIGGS. A frivolous objection, sir! You owe Mr. Topp satisfaction. Your position is absurd, and let me say, sir, subjects you to suspicion; yes sir, to suspicion of cowardice!

TICK. (_Comes toward them, C., blusters._) I’m no coward, mind that! (_Aside._) This is serious. (_Aside to TWIGGS._) I don’t want to fight.

TWIGGS. (_In a friendly manner._) Don’t want to fight? What are your reasons?

TICK. I might get hurt!

TWIGGS. That’s no reason!

TICK. Come aside and I’ll tell you all.

TWIGGS. Publicity is the only recourse at this stage of the proceedings.

TICK. If you must then, I—I don’t wish to deprive an honored house of its head.

TOPP. None of your sentiment, sir!

TWIGGS. A very commendable sentiment, but invalid.

DR. SHORT. Yes, insufficient.

TWIGGS. At this stage of the quarrel, without having satisfied wounded honor, no gentleman would ever speak to either of you again. I advise one shot anyway.

TOPP. I insist on one shot.

TICK. I object to Mr. Topp’s second. He is here through motives of revenge. I’ll leave it to Dr. Short if motives of revenge are allowable in an affair of honor.

DR. SHORT. (_Emphatically._) Never! (_To SPRATT, sternly._) Is this true, sir? (_SPRATT silent._)

GIN. It is. He’s mad at Mistah Tick ’cause he made fun of his twins, Grover Cleveland Spratt and Benjamin Harrison Spratt.

TOPP. I recall some words now, when I come to think of it.

TWIGGS. Resign, sir, at once! Do you resign?

SPRATT. I do! (_Aside._) They are onto my scheme.

GIN. (_To SPRATT, aside._) Bettah git now.

SPRATT. I’ll get even with you, you black rascal. (_Exit, while GIN. goes through pantomime of kicking him out._)

TWIGGS. (_Muses._) Hang it all, I’ll act as second for both parties. How’s that?

DR. SHORT. (_Gravely._) Unusual, without precedent but _honorable_.

TWIGGS. (_Brusquely._) Gentlemen, consider it settled! Take your places! (_They move to places. TOPP R., TICK L. TICK mechanically, as if half dazed._) The word is one, two, three, fire. (_Thrusts pistol in hand of each and goes up C. to give signal. TICK holds his weapon very awkwardly, pointing down._) Young man, are you going to shoot a hole in the earth? (_Adjusts pistol on level for him._)

TOPP. (_Dodging._) I don’t like that. That’s partiality.

TWIGGS. Ah, possibly. (_Reflects a moment._) Stay, I have an idea. (_Produces pistol from pocket._) Dr. Short, favor me with your weapon. (_Takes SHORT’S pistol and goes up C._) Ready, gentlemen. Dr. Short, I’ll trouble you to give the signal. The principals will kindly aim at each other and, to show strict impartiality, I’ll shoot at both. (_Levels a pistol at each of the principals._)

TOPP. (_Dodging._) Hold on there!

TICK. (_Dodging, immediately recovering himself._) No sir—ee! that wont do!

DR. SHORT. Extraordinary!

_ENTER MRS. TWIGGS, R., runs to TWIGGS._

MRS. T. Oh, Josiah, have you found them? (_TWIGGS hastily thrusts one pistol in his pocket and tries to hide the other under his coat._) Oh, Josiah, why don’t you speak. Is anybody killed? Has blood been shed?

TWIGGS. (_Disgusted._) Not a blamed drop! (_Aside._) Fun all spoiled.

_ENTER ANGIE and MRS. T-K., running R._

MRS. T-K. (_Running to TOPP, R._) Oh, Mr. Topp, I implore you spare him!

ANGIE. (_Running to TICK, L._) Spare him, Mr. Tick! Spare him!

TICK. Certainly! I can spare him! (_Puts arm round her waist._)

TOPP. (_Furious._) Bless my eyes! Look at his audacity! I will commit murder. (_Tries to get at TICK, flourishing corncutter. MRS. T-K. clings to him._)

MRS. T-K. You shall not! (_Tableau._) Be merciful!

TOPP. Rash woman, let me go! My honor is at stake.

MR. T. Mr. Topp, there’s a slight mistake somewhere. (_Everybody pauses for explanations, T. crosses to TOPP._) I’ll try to clear it up. You advertised for twins?

TICK. Twins! (_Makes face of surprise._) Dogs!

MRS. T. Generous man!

TOPP. (_Annoyed._) Madam, this is no place for a disquisition on generosity.

MRS. T. So modest! Don’t deny it.

MR. T. Your advertisement brought my daughters to your house. You admired one of them, but I fear you made advances to the wrong one by mistake.

TOPP. (_Pointing to ANGIE._) That is the young lady I meant.

MRS. T-K. But unfortunately she objects. (_Confidentially._) I fear her affections are elsewhere. (_ANGIE cuddles up to TICK._)

TOPP. (_Regarding ANGIE and TICK._) Humph! Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if they were. Here’s a pretty state of affairs. I’ve made a fool of myself. Well, “There’s no fool like an old fool.”

MR. T. My dear Mr. Topp, a young man should not be so pessimistic. Let me match your maxim with another. “There’s just as good fish in the sea as ever were caught.” (_Nudges MRS. T. aside._) How’s that for a pointer?

MRS. T. Mr. Topp, let me introduce my daughter, Mrs. Twiggs-Knott. (_TOPP bows. MRS. T., confidentially._) She is the mother of lovely twins.

TOPP. Ah! indeed, madam? (_To MRS. T-K._) Boys?

MRS. T-K. Fine fellows.

TOPP. Age?

MRS. T-K. Seven.

TOPP. Both the same age?

MRS. T-K. (_Confused._) Why, to be sure.

TOPP. (_Confused._) Yes, of course, I beg pardon!

MRS. T-K. (_Nudging Josiah._) Confused! That’s a good sign.

MR. T. Rattled!

TOPP. Healthy?

MRS. T-K. Tough as pine knots.

MR. T. (_Laughing._) Pine knots, Twiggs-Knotts too. (_Laughs at his witticism._)

MRS. T. (_Aside._) Josiah, your puns are atrocious. (_Twiggs goes L. C. to TICK and speaks inaudibly to him._)

TOPP. Madam, I’ll take the goods, if they’re up to grade.

MRS. T-K. The goods?

TICK. Now, the old man is talking shop himself.

TOPP. I mean, I’ll take the boys.

MRS. T-K. Oh, thank you! Oh, how good of him!

TOPP. Mr. Twiggs, you seem to know that young man of monumental assurance. Who is this Tick?

TWIGGS. Tick? Why, his name is not Tick. That is a nick-name the boys gave him. He is the son of my oldest friend, John Baggs. He is in the employ of Topp & Topp.

TOPP. (_To TICK._) Are you my man, Jim Baggs?

TICK. (Bowing.) I have that honor.

TOPP. Playing tricks on the “old man,” eh? I’ve a mind to discharge you on the spot. Well, I wont, come to think of it. The manager says you could sell oysters to a tobacco sign.

TICK. (_Bowing._) Thank you!

TOPP. But I can’t forgive such freaks, sir.

TICK. I’m very sorry—

TWIGGS. Yes, he’s sorry. Young blood you know and none spilled either—(_All laugh._)

MRS. T. (_Severely._) Josiah!

MR. T. Yes, my dear!

MRS. T-K. We had better go home!

TOPP. Certainly, madam. Potts! Where’s that niggro?

GIN. (_Coming forward._) Yis, sah.

TOPP. Go to the cab stand at the Park and send carriages to meet us at the fountain.

GIN. Yis, sah. (_Exit L._)

MRS. T-K. (_To TOPP._) I do so dislike to part with my dear little boys. Only poverty—

TOPP. They shall have all the advantages of wealth.

MRS. T-K. There _may_ be conditions attached to their going?

TOPP. Indeed? I thought that was all settled?

MRS. T-K. (_Sentimentally, with languishing glance._) I should be very lonely.

TOPP. Ah, I think I understand the conditions. (_Looks at her significantly._) The mother goes with the twins?

MRS. T-K. She _might_ be induced—that is—oh, dear, how sudden! how embarrassing!

TOPP. To relieve that embarrassment, I accept the conditions.

TWIGGS. Take her, my boy! Take her, and God bless you, my children. (_Slaps TOPP on back._)

MRS. T. Josiah, you shock me. You anticipate. This is no place for such demonstrations. _Will_ you go home?

MR. T. I will. Come along. (_Seizes her arm._)

TOPP. (_Taking arm of MRS. T-K._) Come, dear. The house of Topp & Topp shall still keep in the line of its traditions. Twin brothers, same age. (_TICK takes ANGIE’S arm. Dress stage._)

TABLEAU:

_R._ _L._

SHORT, MR. TOPP, MRS. T-K., TWIGGS, MRS. T., ANGIE, TICK.

CURTAIN.

ABOUT THE PLAY.

_Costumes_ of the day. No special make-up is needed and the only direction to be given is that each person should dress in character.

The _dialect_ of GINGER is largely that of the conventional stage darky, which is absurdly unlike the real thing. It is used here for two reasons. First because it is the conventional type that people in the north expect; and second, because the real negro speech is very hard to express in print, and would be very difficult for an amateur to render with such slight study as is usual. In fact the negro dialect of the south consists largely in the peculiar _sonorous quality_ of the negro voice and in the use of _quaint expressions_. To pronounce “Massa” “Massy” is to fail utterly in imitating the African. It is broad and rich, _Mas’r_ (_nearly_). Their grammar is frequently very good, but the penchant of the African to use high-sounding words often leads to very ludicrous results. TOPP’S TWINS will require careful _rehearsal_. Owing to the peculiar nature of the humor and the droll situations, anything like lagging will ruin the effect. The man who plays CADWALADER TOPP must not forget that he is always a gentleman, even in his anger, but he is a _genial_ gentleman and not an icicle. TICK’S assurance always has good nature in it, while SPRATT’S is malicious. MRS. DUBBLEDAM is slow, heavy and serious in all she does.

The author has endeavored to follow the old style and let the humor of the play flow continuously rather than to depend on startling climaxes for effect.

The _duel_ scene may be made very effective, but it must not descend to “horse play.”

PATSY O’WANG

AN IRISH FARCE WITH A CHINESE MIX-UP

BY T. S. DENISON

_Author of_ Odds with the Enemy, Initiating a Granger, Wanted, a Correspondent, A Family Strike, Seth Greenback, Louva, the Pauper, Hans Von Smash, Borrowing Trouble, Two Ghosts in White, The Pull-Back, Country Justice, The Assessor, The Sparkling Cup, Our Country, Irish Linen Peddler, The School Ma’am, Kansas Immigrants, An Only Daughter, Too Much of a Good Thing, Under the Laurels, Hard Cider, The Danger Signal, Wide Enough for Two, Pets of Society, Is the Editor In? The New Woman, Patsy O’Wang, Rejected, Only Cold Tea, Madam P’s Beauty Parlors, Topp’s Twins, A First-Class Hotel, It’s all in the Pay-Streak, The Cobbler, A Dude in a Cyclone, Friday Dialogues.

_Also the Novels, The Man Behind, An Iron Crown, etc._

CHICAGO: T. S. DENISON, PUBLISHER, 163 RANDOLPH STREET.

PATSY O’WANG.

COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY T. S. DENISON.

CAST OF CHARACTERS.

PATSY O’WANG, alias Chin Sum, from Hong Kong. DR. HENRY FLUKE, who runs a sanitarium. MIKE, from the ould sod, an assistant. MR. BOYLER, a patient with rheumatism. MRS. HARRIET FLUKE. MISS SIMPER, who has a mission, a Chinese Sunday-school. NORAH, maid of all work.

_Time of Representation, thirty-five minutes._

SYNOPSIS AND HINTS TO PLAYERS.

The key to this capital farce is the remarkable transformation of which Chin Sum is capable. Born of Irish father and Chinese mother and brought up in barracks at Hong Kong he has a remarkable dual nature. Whiskey, the drink of his father, transforms him into a true Irishman, while strong tea, the beverage of his mother, has the power of restoring fully his Chinese character. Dr. Fluke employs Chin as cook, on the hearty recommendation of his old friend, Major Barker. Unfortunately for the doctor, Chin gets at the whiskey bottle through the carelessness of Mike, who, in his way is no less a character than Chin Sum himself. For the subsequent ludicrous incidents read the text of the play.

The author believes that this farce will prove one of the most popular. The extraordinary success of his previous plays, notably the farces “Hans Von Smash.” “Irish Linen Peddler,” and “Wide Enough for Two,” renders this prediction a safe one. What the public wants is _humor_ and _action_. In the latter feature “Patsy O’Wang” is unequaled. _Caution_, in fact, is necessary here lest the play be overdone. Excessive boisterousness and “horse play” should be carefully avoided.

This is a play that must be _well rehearsed_. It must be kept in mind that while Mike and Norah are conventional Irish with a thick brogue, Patsy (after his transformation) speaks good English with little if any brogue. In Hong Kong his associations were with officers of the British army (as servant) and naturally he acquired the language of gentlemen.

No instructions can be given here concerning the Chinese part except that the _timbre_ and _tones_ of the Chinese voice are very peculiar, and can be learned only by listening to Chinamen. The Chinese dialect as written here (and elsewhere in America) is at best but a poor imitation, but good enough to be funny, which is the only object in view.

COSTUMES of the day. Patsy, very thick-soled shoes (can be fixed at home), and tunic to wear outside pantaloons.

PROPERTIES.

Machine of some kind to make noise in wings; bottles in box, bottles on shelves, extra coat and shoes for office, ulster, hot-water bag and tube, funnel, cane, letter, large syringe, or other article to serve as stomach pump, tray, tea-pot, cups, plate of crackers, pig-tail for Patsy, wig for Boyler.

STAGE DIRECTIONS.

_R._ means right of the stage _C._, center; _R. C._, right center; _L._, left; _1 E._, first entrance; _U. E._, upper entrance, etc.; _D. F._, door in flat or back of the stage. The actor is supposed to be facing the audience.

PATSY O’WANG.

SCENE—_DOCTOR FLUKE’S office. Main entrance L., private consultation room R., massage and electric room entrance D. F. R. C. Table C., with old papers and magazines. Small bookcase with books, or shelves with bottles at option, by flat L. C. Diploma on wall. Sign on door “DR. FLUKE, hours 12 to 4.” Settee, R._

MRS. F. (_Discovered as curtain arises._) Well, Dr. Fluke, _I_ shant take the responsibility of having a Chinaman in the house.

DR. F. My dear, don’t be absurd! There’s no responsibility in the case. Out in California, you know, people are charmed with Chinese cooks. Why, your sister couldn’t be induced to part with Weak Lung.

MRS. F. Maria always was eccentric.

DR. F. But you know, darling, we have tried everything but the Chinese—Irish, Swede, German, French, African, Yankee—that’s so as we haven’t had any Hindoos yet nor Cannibal Islanders.

MRS. F. Dear me! It makes me weary to think of it. Why can’t we get along with Norah?

DR. F. (_Sarcastically._) Or transform Mike into a cook.

MRS. F. Now you are absurd, Henry. I’ll wash my hands of the whole affair.

DR. F. My dear, that is just what I wanted you to say.

MRS. F. Indeed, then you needn’t have asked my opinion at all.

DR. F. I am sure this Patsy O’Wang is a treasure.

MRS. F. (_In astonishment._) Patsy O’Wang! Patsy doesn’t sound very Chinese.

DR. F. But he has a history.

MRS. F. Oh indeed! That’s rather a doubtful accomplishment for a cook.

DR. F. Quite the contrary! Harriet, I tell you that I’ve found a treasure. Let me read you what Major Barker says in his letter recommending Chin Sum.

MRS. F. Chin Sum! I thought you said his name was—what barbarous name did you say?

DR. F. (_Laughing._) Patsy O’Wang! but that’s only a nick-name. The Chinese of it is Chin Sum. Now Chin is the son of a wild Irish officer in the tenth Artillery stationed formerly at Hong Kong. His mother was a pretty Chinese girl.

MRS. F. (_Surprised._) Well, did you ever!

DR. F. My dear, I admit that there is a slight flaw in his pedigree. (_Looking at letter._) But let me skip all that. Major Barker speaks of him in the most extravagant terms—(_reading_): “The best cook I ever saw,” “the most obedient servant,” “the most affectionate creature”; (_triumphantly_) isn’t that enough?

MRS. F. I suppose so since apparently it is all settled.

DR. F. There’s more.

MRS. F. Never mind, skip it.

DR. F. Eh, what’s this? “Never under any circumstances let him taste a drop of whiskey.”

MRS. F. Humph, then you’ll have to keep him and Mike apart.

DR. F. (_Reads to himself._) Really that is surprising.

MRS. F. What’s surprising?

_ENTER NORAH, L._

DR. F. Nothing, my dear (_reads_). “The remedy is”—

NORAH. If you plaze, sor, the Chinee cook has come.

DR. F. All right, Norah, show him his room and then take him to the kitchen. My dear will you install him?

MRS. F. No indeed! You may do that, Henry, till he gets a start. Decidedly I feel nervous with a Chinaman in the kitchen. Who knows but he may poison us all.

NORAH. (_Re-enter with card._) If you plaze, Mrs. Fluke, Miss Simper’s at the dure.

MRS. F. Show her in, Norah, at once. (_Exit NORAH, L._) Now she will be trying to convert him.

_ENTER MISS SIMPER, L._

MRS. F. I’m delighted to see you, Miss Simper.

MISS S. Thank you! I just run in for a minute. Good morning, Dr. Fluke.

DR. F. Good morning, Miss Simper. How charming you look. That tonic benefited you greatly. Shall I change the prescription?

MISS S. (_Hastily._) No, thank you, I have come to-day in the interest of the missionary cause.

MRS. F. Wont you step back into the parlor where we can talk at leisure?

MISS S. Oh no, I’m in a dreadful hurry. The African Argonauts meet at eleven and I preside. We start our first worker to Ashantee to-morrow. At 4 p. m. the Mongolian Mediators have a meeting and at 8 p. m. is the debate in which we shall answer the Cannibal Calumniators.

DR. F. You are a very busy bee, Miss Simper.

MISS S. No, I’ve resigned from the Busy Bees; concentrating you see. They say you have a new Chinese cook, Mrs. Fluke.

MRS. F. Not I. He’s the doctor’s importation. Talk to him.

MISS S. (_Enthusiastically._) Oh doctor, tell me all about him. My heart bleeds for the millions of Asia who sit in outer darkness.

DR. F. My dear Miss Simper, he is a gold nugget; he will be a capital acquisition in your mission school, so intelligent, so docile, so affectionate, so—so—

MISS S. Just so. Oh, I’m perfectly delighted. Doctor, does he—ah—has he doffed the Chinese garb yet and donned the raiment of civilization?

DR. F. Blessed if I know. I’ll call him in and introduce him at once. (_Rings._)

MISS S. Do so. I was just going to ask that very favor. I’m sure he will agreeably surprise us all.

DR. F. He will. (_NORAH enters L._) Bring Chin Sum here.

MRS. F. I hope the wretch doesn’t smoke opium.

DR. F. Harriet, don’t expose your ignorance. That is done in _joints_.

MRS. F. What kind of joints?

DR. F. Blessed if I know, bamboo joints possibly. I hear the Chinese do most everything with bamboo except to fight Japan. They did that in their minds.

_ENTER NORAH followed by CHIN._

DR. F. Chin Sum, I want to introduce you to my wife; by the way, I think I will call you Patsy. Wife, our new servant Patsy O’Wang. (_MRS. F. surveys him in silence._)

PATSY. (_Puts left hand to heart and bows._) Velly much glad see Missee Fluke.

DR. F. And this is Miss Simper, a mission young lady.

PATSY. Vellee nice mission gull (_girl_).

MISS S. (_Blushing._) Mr. O’Wang, you’re _so_ gallant. Promise me to come to Bible class next Sunday.

PATSY. Sooh thing!

MISS S. How intelligent!

PATSY. Leadee all same Biblee in Flisco?

MISS S. I don’t understand him. (_Turns enquiringly to Dr._)

DR. F. Yes, Patsy, they read the same Bible as they do in Frisco.

PATSY. Sing velly nice hymn-song all same day?

DR. F. Yes!

PATSY. Chin Sum make be school boy next Sunday all same day.

DR. F. (_Looks at watch._) Patients will be coming soon. Patsy, I’ll show you the kitchen and tell you what to prepare for dinner to-day, after that Mrs. Fluke—

MRS. F. Oh dear!

MISS S. How charming! So childlike!

PATSY. (_Grins._) All samee lika big man-shile? No catchee what say.

DR. F. Patsy, go to the kitchen, I’ll be there in a minute. (_Dr. goes into office changes coat, putting on light jacket, hanging coat in office. Follows Patsy out L._)

_NORAH and MIKE heard D. F._

MRS. F. Here are the attendants getting the baths ready. Come into the house. It may be all right but I’m afraid.

MISS S. What, afraid of Chin! I shall call him Chin, poor boy. I think those Chinese names perfectly lovely. So brief, so simple, so childlike. Chin! just think! _so_ expressive.

MRS. F. (_As they go, L._) And those horrid stories of rats and opium.

MISS S. I don’t believe a word of it. (_Exeunt, L._)

_ENTER MIKE and NORAH from D. F._

NORAH. What do you think, Mike, of havin’ a Chinee cook in the house?

MIKE. Ah Norah, it’s an outrage, that’s the whole blissid truth. To think of a blackgyard haythen cookin’ for dacint people.

NORAH. It’s a disgrace, I’ll give notice, I will—

MIKE. I’ll not ate a bit o’ his dirthy cookin’, faith I’ll not.

NORAH. But what’ll ye do. Them that works must eat.

MIKE. (_Winking._) O’im all right as long as free lunches hold out.

NORAH. Free lunches ye’d better let alone, Mike.

MIKE. Norah, it’s not the lunches that afficts me. It’s what goes with thim.

NORAH. Last time you know, Dr. Fluke said you’d have to leave if you got drunk again.

MIKE. It’s a bit o’ charity the doctor needs. Ivery mon has some wakeness.

NORAH. And woman is weak too, so just carry out that box of bottles for me, I’ll have to wash them here. The doctor has some of his truck in the laboratory.

MIKE. He’ll be blowin’ the whole place up yit with his dinnymite an’ farmacopy. (_Brings out bottles and sets box L. up._)

NORAH. Mike, ye’d better get ready for Mr. Boyler. He’ll be here pretty soon for his electricity and that Englishman will want his bawth. (_NORAH washing bottles._)

MIKE. Faith it’s enough to try the patience of ould Job himself. Begob, Job never was docthor’s assistant. I regret I iver intered the midical profession. Ivery toime I look at ould Boyler he sez, Mike, ye’ve hurt me rheumatiz again.

NORAH. Mike, you are too strong, you must be careful.

MIKE. Faith I handle him just like a new born baby, or like the egg with the chick unborn. But the ould badger’s that tender I’m mortally afraid he’ll go all to pieces in the bath tub.

NORAH. Mr. Boyler complains to Doctor Fluke that you are too rough.

MIKE. Too rough, is it! Faith he’ll have to be packed in cotton nixt. The Docthor was after tellin’ me to stretch Boyler’s limbs gintly loike an’ I tuk hold av his arm with one hand and his shoulther with the other like this and pulled like this, sort o’ bracin’ mysilf loike with one fut forinst the tub. I’m a thafe if some jint or other didn’t snap like a pistol. I was so scared that I dropped the ould bundle in the wather hid over ears. I thought he was goin’ to exshplode right there in me hands.

NORAH. (_Laughing._) What did he say?

MIKE. I don’t know what he intinded to say. He sthrangled.

NORAH. Why, was he under the water so long as that?

MIKE. No, indade it wasn’t the wather. It was the strong language. He is that way sometimes when his emotions overcome him. When the ould sinner gets to swearin’, he can’t stop till he sthrangles. After that he’s very paceable for a shpell.

NORAH. But he’s awful good in spite of his rough ways. He gives you many a quarter.

MIKE. That he does and I couldn’t think more of an only child if I had wan nor an only father ayther for that matter. I’m prayin’ for him night an’ day. If he survives these baths and the alectricity an’ the drugs and the plasthers, it’ll be a great triumph of the midical profession. There he comes now, I hear his cane on the walk.

_ENTER BOYLER, L., limping and twisted with rheumatism._

BOYLER. Good morning, Mike, good morning, Norah.

MIKE. Mornin’, sir. Begob, ye’re spry as a kitten this marnin’. I thought it was the milkman whin I heerd yez.

BOYLER. Mike, try to be careful to-day. You rubbed my right side yesterday till I think you started all my ribs.

NORAH. Do be gentle, Mike.

MIKE. I’ll be as tender—as tender as a shpring chicken. It’s alictricity, sor, to-day?

BOYLER. So it is, I forgot.

MIKE. The docthor said yez couldn’t stand another bath to-day. (_Catching himself._) I mane ye’re improvin’ till yez don’t nade it. (_Leads B. into D. F. to operating room._)

NORAH. (_Washing bottles._) Such dirty bottles. The labels ain’t half soaked off and the half of them look greasy. (_Sound of machine humming._) Boyler groans: “Oh! Mike, that’s too strong.”

NORAH. Poor man, I wonder if it does him any good?

_ENTER PATSY O’WANG, L._

PATSY. Ilish gal! Monnin’, Nolee.

NORAH. (_Looks up._) What’s that?

PATSY. All samee nice day.

NORAH. Go back with yez to the kitchen.

PATSY. Chin Sum want see.

_ENTER MIKE from D. F._

MIKE. Yez want to see? All right ye shall see. That (_Points R. door._) is the Docthor’s private consultification room. Nobody but himself and patients and mimbers of the profession like mesilf go in there. (_B. calls_ “MIKE.”) Back there is the operating room. Whin yez git hurted that’s where they saw yer leg off.

PATSY. (_Starting._) What time saw leg?

MIKE. Ony toime.

PATSY. Who leg?

MIKE. Begob, onbody’s if they can pay for the job. (_B. impatiently calls “MIKE, MIKE!”_)

MIKE. Comin’, sor.

PATSY. (_Sees machine through door._) What machine? All samee lope loun wheel.

MIKE. (_Scratching his head._) I’m thinkin’ it would take a Frinchman or a Dago to talk to the haythen.

PATSY. Lope loun wheel. (_Makes sign of turning._)

MIKE. He wants to turn a bit. Begob, yez may turn awhile.

NORAH. Be careful, Mike. The doctor wouldn’t like it. (_They enter D. F._)

MIKE. (_Voice heard._) Turn aisy loike. It’s great shport. (_Patsy turns machine._)

_RE-ENTER MIKE._

NORAH. Doctor wouldn’t like your letting that Chinee boy meddle here.

MIKE. I’ve a bit of an arrant. He may turn till I get back. (_Exit L._)

NORAH. Worry now! These be a bad lot of bottles. (_Drops one and breaks it._) There, I’ve broken one. (_B. groans_ “Hold, that’s too fast.” _PATSY turns faster. B. yells_ “stop.” _Chinaman does not understand. B. screams in pain_, “stop, you scoundrel!”)

NORAH. Oh dear, there they go. I knew there would be trouble. (_Calls D. L._) “Mike, Mike, come quick. Where is the doctor? He ought to be here.” (_Runs out L._)

BOYLER. (_Gets up, and crash of chair upsetting._) You Mongolian idiot. (_Comes out D. F._) Where is that rascally Irishman? (_PATSY follows out, looks puzzled._) John, you are a fool.

PATSY. (_Grins._) My name not John. Name in Chinee Chin Sum. Melican name Patsy O’Wang.

B. Stop your chatter, you mummy, you saffron colored rat catcher! Where is that rascal of a Mike? When I get well it’ll be a bad day for him. I’ll murder that man yet. (_Dances around._) How my nerves thrill, oh! oh! (_Seizes left leg and dances around on right._) The liniment! No attendance here. I’ll sue Fluke for damages. Here, you moon-faced Mongolian monkey! What are you grinning at? Do you see that bottle of liniment? (_Points with cane to bottle on shelf._)

PATSY. Heap bottle, one time, whichee?

B. That one! bring it in and rub me. I’m on fire.

PATSY. Melican man hot like old boy; all bun up.

BOYLER. I’ll die in this infernal torture chamber. (_Roars._) Bring the bottle! (_Enters D. F. growling and holding leg._)

PATSY. (_Takes brandy bottle, uncorks, smells._) Um! Hong Kong blandy! make toddy likee time in Hong Kong. Dlink heap toddy. (_Takes drink, rubs stomach._) Um! velly good.

B. (_Calls._) Hurry up, you! What on earth are you doing?

PATSY. (_Takes bottle of liniment, enters D. F. Rubs B., who gives grunts of satisfaction. PATSY runs out, takes another drink, rubs stomach, runs back again, rubs B. Business ad lib._)

_ENTER MIKE suddenly, followed by NORAH, L. They surprise PATSY with bottle._

MIKE. Put that down, ye haythen!

PATSY. Ilishman dlunk! (_Runs back and turns handle furiously._)

NORAH. Do ye hear that, Mike? That Chinaman’s goin’ to ruin the place! Oh, do stop him.

MIKE. Let the haythen airn his wages. (_Piercing shrieks from B._)

NORAH. Oh Mike, do stop him. He’ll kill Mr. Boyler.

MIKE. (_Unconcernedly._) Faith, that’s nothin’. That’s the way the ould badger goes on ivery day if I only touch a bit av a sore spot. A good shakin’ up’ll benefit him greatly. I think he’ll be ready nixt for the bat’s liver oil.

NORAH. Merciful powers! Did ye say bat’s liver oil?

MIKE. Bat’s liver oil, I said. (_PATSY comes out to make sneak for bottle, MIKE turns and sees him._) Hould on there, Patsy! The docthor and meself have institooted a regular coorse (_B. yells_) “Mike, where are you?” Here, sor. (_To NORAH._) First comes the hot bath at noinety noine degrays Farenhot, followed by pullin’ the limbs, on the injy rubber plan. (_Business of stretching patient’s arm._) Nixt is the alictricity an’ liniment; thin comes the bat’s liver oil.

NORAH. An’ what will be next?

MIKE. That’s a saycret like the Kaly cure.

NORAH. Tell _me_ wont you Mike?

MIKE. Yis, if yez wont tell onybody. (_Approaches her and puts up hand to her ear, then in very loud distinct stage whisper._) Sand paper!

NORAH. Go ’long with yez. (_Slaps him._)

B. (_Inside._) Murder! Oh! oh! You infernal scoundrel. (_Great racket of B. getting out of chair. PATSY comes out flying with B. after him. They come down C. B. strikes PATSY with cane. PATSY grabs at cane and pulls B.’S wig off. Runs with it into office, R., and closes door as B. throws cane after him._)

MIKE. Thank God he’s cured! He’s throwed away the cane. (_B. clutches at MIKE’S throat, MIKE dodges._) Aisy sor, aisy, ye’re all right now.

B. (_Speaks with difficulty._) You villain! My leg is on fire. (_Makes after MIKE, chases him round the table._)

MIKE. I belave it, sor. It’s a very lively leg, Mr. Boyler. (_They stop, MIKE next L. B. R. of table._)

B. (_Trying to speak but can not for rage and excitement._) Oh, you—you—

MIKE. Aisy sor, careful sor. Wont ye step into the office and write a bit of a tistimonial for the inshtitootion? (_B. shakes his fist at him, speechless._)

NORAH. Oh dear, we’re all ruined. He’ll tell the Doctor.

MIKE. Whist, he’s stranglin’ now. It is the profanity. He’s often took that way. (_PATSY in office utters a loud whoop._)

NORAH. Where _is_ the Doctor. Everything’s going to ruin. (_Runs out L. Another whoop in office. B. frantically rubbing lame leg._)

MIKE. That haythen is gettin’ gay. I’ll tache him a lesson he won’t forget soon. I’ll tache him to stay in the kitchen. (_Goes toward office door._)

B. (_Recovers speech._) I’ll have you arrested, you villain, for malpractice.

MIKE. Malpractice! What sort o’ practice is that?

B. You are a pair of knaves. (_In excitement puts down lame leg._)

MIKE. What a wonderful cure. Beautiful! I’ll just kape this stick as a tistimonial.

B. None of your insolence. I’ll sue Doctor Fluke for damages, and as for you and that Chinaman, I’ll have you put in jail. (_Going L._)

MIKE. A beautiful cure, sor. Ye walk as straight as—as straight—as the moral law. Ye’d make an illegant drum-major.

B. (_Snorts._) Drum-major! (_Going._)

MIKE. Wont yez take yer hat, sor? (_Exit B. L. limping very little._) Now I’ll just settle with John Chinaman, bad cess to him.

_ENTER PATSY suddenly from office._

PATSY. Whoopee! Feel good! Allee same day feel bully! (_Jumps from floor and kicks his wooden-soled shoes like an athlete._)

MIKE. (_Starting back._) Faith I think he’s possissed! (_PATSY still clutches wig in left hand, seizes cane from table and jumps up again. Comes down with a whoop and makes a lightning shillelah pass at MIKE’S head._)

MIKE. The divil’s in him. I’d betther call the docthor. (_Starts L. slowly at first with PATSY advancing. They keep eyes on each other and MIKE gradually gets in a panic. He suddenly darts for door just as PATSY throws an empty bottle from table at his head. Bottle breaks outside with a crash._)

PATSY. (_Comes down C._) It’s a bad head I have! Where am I? What am I? (_Thinks a moment._) Now I have it. I’m an Irishman again. Is this Hong Kong? No, this is America. (_Looks round._) A doctor’s shop! I was this way once before in Hong Kong when I got drunk in the barracks. Whiskey brings out the Irish in me. But they put me back. What did they give me? I can’t remember. My head’s all confused. (_Hands to head._) Well, I wont be a Chinaman. I wont take a blessed drop of anything but poteen. I’ll get rid of this Chinese dress. I hate it. (_Notices wig._) Just the thing! (_Coils pig-tail up carefully on top of his head and puts on B.’S wig. Looks in hand glass that is on shelf._) Not so bad! Old coat, I’m done with you, too. (_Throws of Chinese tunic. Gets doctor’s coat from nail inside office and puts it on. Looks in glass._) Not so bad a fit, though a bit too long in the tails. (_Walks across stage._) Well now, aint I good enough Irish for New York or Chicago or Cork ayther? (_Sees shoes._) Look at the bloody shoes. (_Kicks them high in the air._) Off with ye. Cow leather’s good enough for me. (_Goes in office and comes out with doctor’s shoes. Puts them on._) Now me toilet is more to me likin’. (_Struts admiringly._) Let that ould bear come back an’ the doctor and his man. I’ll thrash the whole crowd if they lay hands on me.

_ENTER MRS. FLUKE, L._

MRS. F. A patient? The doctor will soon be here. Have a seat, sir. (_Notices oddity of PATSY’S appearance. Starts._) Oh! Who are you?

PATSY. Don’t be alarmed, madam. I’m Patsy O’Wang. I’m the new—No, indeed, I’m _not_ that.

MRS. F. The new cook, and crazy! Oh dear, I knew there’d be trouble. Oh, _why_ doesn’t Dr. Fluke come!

PATSY. I beg, madam, that you do not give yourself any uneasiness about the doctor. He’ll soon be here, I assure you.

MRS. F. He seems harmless. I declare if he hasn’t a wig! And as I live the doctor’s coat on. (_Aside._) A robber in disguise.

PATSY. Madam, you are not well. (_Politely._) I beg you to be seated. (_Points to chair by table._)

MRS. F. He’s very polite, at any rate. (_During this dialogue MRS. F. has been getting closer to door L. and at last darts out suddenly to surprise of PATSY._)

PATSY. There’s goes another! It’s not much confidence the new mistress has in me. They’re puttin’ a job up on me. What is it they gave me before? (_Thinks._) I’d give a thousand dollars if I could only think of it.

_ENTER DR. F. L. followed by MRS. F., NORAH, MIKE, MISS SIMPER. PATSY runs into office R. and locks himself in._

MRS. F. Doctor Fluke, I told you something would happen.

DR. F. Pshaw, nothing has happened. Mike let him have whiskey.

MRS. F. I told you so. The very thing he shouldn’t have had.

DR. F. I’ll cure him quick enough, and Mike you are very careless.

MIKE. I’m very sorry, sor, but I didn’t let him have the whiskey. Do yez think I’d be wastin’ good liquor on a Chinaman?

MRS. F. But he’s got it now and what will you do, I’d like to know?

DR. F. I’ll just give him the remedy spoken of by Major Barker.

MRS. F. What is the remedy?

DR. F. (_Claps hand in pocket._) Where is that letter? Here’s a go! (_Turns over papers on table looking for letter._)

MRS F. Have you lost the letter?

DR. F. It seems so. (_Business of diving his hands into his pockets._) Oh, I have it!

MRS. F. Read it then!

DR. F. I mean, I know where it is. I changed coats.

MRS. F. And Patsy has the coat on!

DR. F. Well that is a situation!

MRS. F. (_Hysterically._) Now he’ll murder us all.

DR. F. Nonsense! Major Barker says he’s the most affectionate creature.

MRS. F. Major Barker, fiddlesticks!

MISS S. I am sure the major must be right. I do think the Chinese have such lovely dispositions.

MRS. F. Miss Simper, you and the doctor fatigue me with such twaddle.

DR. F. Mike, suppose you go into the office and ask him for my coat.

MIKE. If you plaze, sor, I think my appearance excoites him a bit.

MISS S. Oh, let me go. (_Starts._)

MRS. F. Miss Simper, are you out of your senses? (_Pulls her back._)

DR. F. I will go in.

MRS. F. (_Pulling him back._) Henry, do you want to be murdered?

DR. F. (_Petulantly releasing himself._) Let me alone. (_Goes toward door, knocks._) “Patsy! Patsy!”

MRS. F. Oh rash man! Henry, I know we’ll all be killed in our tracks.

MISS S. Let me reason with him!

MRS. F. Oh you silly goose. Do be quiet, wont you. What _can_ he be doing? (_All listen._) It’s as quiet as the grave. I’ll bet he’s taking poison in his desperation. Or hanging himself, may be.

MIKE. There’s a noice bit o’ rope on the pulley machine.

MRS. F. We’ll all be killed yet, I know. Miss Simper, save yourself. (_Shoves MISS S. and NORAH out, L._)

DR. F. Harriet, there isn’t the slightest danger.

MRS. F. Dr. Fluke, why do you stand there like a post? Why _don’t_ you send for the police before that Chinaman does anything desperate? He is crazy and so are you.

DR. F. Humph! He’s drunk!

MRS. F. He’s crazy. Mike, run for the police.

DR. F. Mike, stay where you are, to assist me.

MRS. F. What _are_ you going to do, Henry?

DR. F. Going into that room. (_MRS. F. throws up her hands and then suddenly lays hold of DR.’S coat tails._) Let me alone. (_Breaking loose, raps on door; MRS F. runs to door L. DR. calls_) “Patsy!” “Say! Chin Sum!” (_Voice inside_) “Sir.” Will you let me in? (_Voice answers._) “No.” I don’t want to arrest you. (_Voice indistinctly._) I give you my word of honor. What? Yes, I’ll send them all out.

MRS. F. Indeed, I wont go out and see you killed.

DR. F. Harriet, how could you see me killed if you went out. (_Through door._) Yes, I’ll send them _all_. Mike go at once. Harriet, please go. He wont open the door till you all go. He is afraid we’ll take him to jail.

MIKE. Sarve him good and roight, I say.

MRS. F. Yes he ought to be jailed for acting that way. (_Exit MIKE to operating room, D. F._)

DR. F. (_Leads MRS. F. out L., she, protesting, returns to office door, R._) Just hand my coat through the door, please. (_Door opens and coat is pushed through._)

DR. F. Now for the remedy! (_Eagerly opens letter, reads._) “Affectionate creature.”

MRS. F. (_In door L._) Stuff!

DR. F. Hum, “most confiding”—yes, it seems so. Oh, here it is.

MRS. F. (_Entering, eagerly._) What is it?

DR. F. Harriet, why do you interrupt? Oh, here it is! “If he ever gets under the influence of liquor he labors under the strange delusion that he is an Irishman.”

MRS. F. How absurd! He’s crazy, I’d call the police.

DR. F. (_Petulantly._) My dear, will you allow me? This is a very curious case. “The remedy is _tea_, plenty of strong _tea_.” How very simple. (_Rings bell._) I’ll give him enough tea to settle him in short order.

_ENTER NORAH, L._

NORAH. What is it, sor? Is he still voilent?

DR. F. Peaceful as a lamb! He wants tea.

NORAH. Tay is it! Did yez iver—

MRS. F. As well try a pinch of salt.

DR. F. Don’t stand there talking, Norah. Bring the tea at once. Plenty of it! Strong! Just throw about half a pound into the tin pot and fill it with hot water.

NORAH. The tin pot houlds a gallon, sor.

DR. F. (_Impatiently._) Will you obey orders? Go! Run! (_Exit NORAH grumbling, L._)

MRS. F. Tea! The idea! (_Follows NORAH out L._)

DR. F. (_Pacing floor, excitedly._) This is a great case. I’ll write it up for the medical journals. A wonderful case—

_ENTER BOYLER, L. angry._

B. All humbug, sir!

DR. F. What’s that? Oh, it’s you, Mr. Boyler.

B. At last I’ve found you out, Dr. Fluke!

DR. F. So it seems. Why bless me, if you aint cured. Walking without a cane!

B. Humbug! I said.

DR. F. But it’s a fact!

B. You can’t hoodwink me, sir. You’re a charlatan!

DR. F. Don’t be unreasonable!

B. Unreasonable! Oh, I _can’t_ stand that. (_DR. laughs._) Gad, sir, you are actually laughing at my misfortunes. Do you call yourself a gentleman?

DR. F. Cut all that! What do you complain of? You are cured.

B. Confound your cure. You first maltreat me, outrage my feelings and then laugh at me.

DR. F. When has all this happened?

B. Every day for a month, Dr. Fluke. First you put a Hercules in the shape of a wild Irishman to rub me in the bath. He breaks every bone in my body by installments. Then he pummels me by degrees into a jelly.

DR. F. Well, what did you expect, Mr. Boyler? This isn’t a kindergarten, and your rheumatism was a very obstinate case.

B. Obstinate case! Let me say, sir, you are a butcher and that Irishman is an executioner. To crown the indignity you set a crazy Chinaman to give me the electrical treatment. He runs a stream of liquid fire through my leg.

DR. F. Which cured you completely!

B. Will you let me speak, sir? When I protest, the heathen doubles the quantity. Why gad, sir, it was something terrific. I saw the constellation of Orion in broad daylight.

DR. F. Ah, it _is_ a fine machine! A beauty!

B. (_Laughs._) There you are wrong, for I smashed it to bits.

DR. F. (_Starting._) What’s that you say? My fine machine ruined? I’ll have damages, Mr. Boyler.

B. Damages! I shall sue you for $10,000 damages.

DR. F. Do it, sir, do it! It’ll make my fortune. It will advertise the greatest cure of the age. Nothing like a law suit for advertising purposes. Wont you oblige me by breaking something else? Just upset those shelves, wont you? Throw my instrument case out of the window.

B. I’ll not do it. I wont gratify you. A gentleman can find other ways of avenging an insult. And then there’s my wig, too.

DR. F. Where?

B. Where? Do you doubt my word? (_Takes off hat and exposes shiny bald head._) Do you see that?

DR. F. I see the head-piece but I don’t see any wig.

B. (_Emphatically._) No, sir, you don’t see any wig. Your crazy Chinaman snatched it off my head and exposed me to the indignity of going home barehead in the public street.

DR. F. You shouldn’t go out barehead, you may catch cold; I’ll not be responsible if you disobey orders.

B. And whose fault would it be?

DR. F. Yours, of course.

B. Why, hang your assurance, Dr. Fluke.

DR. F. I disapprove of your indiscretion.

B. (_Excitedly._) Fluke, I don’t think I ever saw quite such monumental effrontery as yours. That wig cost me one hundred and fifty dollars, one of the very best make by the celebrated Toupee.

DR. F. Oh, we’ll not haggle about trifles. I’ll credit it on the bill for the electric machine. That cost five hundred dollars.

B. (_Gesticulating._) Credit it on the bill! That’s cool, why confound your insolence! I’ve a mind to cane you on the spot.

DR. F. But you can’t, you see. You have no cane. You are cured.

B. (_With a roar._) Oh, this man will put me crazy if I stay here much longer. You’ll hear from me again, Dr. Fluke. You are a quack. (_Bolts toward door as_—)

_ENTER NORAH, L., with tray, milk jug, sugar bowl, spoons and plate of crackers. B. runs against her and sends things flying as he exits._

NORAH. Well, did yez iver see such a cyclone! (_Commences picking up things around the stage._)

_ENTER MIKE, L., carrying big tin tea-pot full of hot tea._

MIKE. Begorrah, it was lucky I was carryin’ the tay pot or there’d been a Noah’s flood o’ tay.

NORAH. Must I get more crame, Docthor?

MIKE. It’s aisy to pick that up with a spoon.

_MRS. F. and MISS S. appear timidly at door, L._

DR. F. Bother the cream. It’s the tea I want. Put the things on the table. Now I’ll get him to come out.

MRS. F. Henry, do you think he’ll hurt you?

MISS S. The idea! Poor abused thing!

DR. F. Clear out, you women. Do you want to frighten him? (_Exeunt MRS. F. and MISS S._) Mike, go in the operating room to be ready for emergencies. (_MIKE enters D. F. and peeps out from time to time, as do the two ladies, L._) Norah, you be ready to serve the tea. I’ll drink some to make believe. Be cool, don’t lose your head.

NORAH. (_Arranging tea things._) Yis, sor, but I can’t guarantee to kape me head if that ould cyclone blows in again.

DR. F. (_Knocks at office door._) Patsy, come out please. It’s nearly dinner time. (_Voice indistinctly inside._) What’s that? Yes, I’m all alone, that is, Norah is here, too. (_Door opens cautiously. PATSY looks out, then comes out enveloped in doctor’s ulster and muffled to the ears with doctor’s neckcloth. Wig frowzed till he looks like a fright. As he appears, heads at the other door disappear suddenly._)

DR. F. (_Starting back._) Why Patsy, are you cold? I feel decidedly too warm.

PATSY. I think I took a bit o’ cold in the cars, I’m subject to sore throat.

NORAH. (_Aside._) Crazy as a June bug.

DR. F. Chin Sum, do you like tea?

PATSY. My name isn’t Chin Sum; just Patrick O’Wang, if you please.

DR. F. What is the _O_ for, Patrick?

PATSY. The _O_ shows that I’m a son of me father.

DR. F. We have tea served. Sometimes we take a light refreshment an hour or so before dinner. Patsy, do you like tea?

PATSY. (_Aside._) Tea! (_With wink._) I’m onto their scheme. I’ll take a drop, weak if you please, one lump of sugar.

DR. F. (_Is at L. of table, seats himself facing front._) Norah, place a chair. Be seated, Patsy. You must be tired.

PATSY. Your honor I couldn’t sit in your presence. (P. _is at R. of table._)

DR. F. Very well, as you please. Norah, pour the tea. Give me a small cup. For a cold it should be drunk copiously. You had better take several cups, Patsy.

PATSY. Very well, sir, I like tea myself. (_DR. F. chuckles to himself. NORAH, rear of table, hands doctor a small cup then a large one to PATSY. Latter has a large hot-water bag under his ulster with rubber tube and small funnel, all found in office. The collar of the ulster must be very high and stand well forward. The funnel is held by the left hand partially enveloped in a large silk handkerchief. Under pretense of coddling his throat PATSY keeps his left hand up under his chin to keep the funnel concealed. As he drinks he turns away to R. from the doctor, back to audience, pours tea down funnel. As he hands cup back to NORAH he thrusts his left hand beneath the ulster, the top button of which is unbuttoned. Repeat with each cup._)

DR. F. (_Sipping tea and nibbling a cracker._) How do you like the tea, Patsy?

PATSY. (_Smacking his lips._) It’s capital tea, doctor.

DR. F. Norah, fill his cup. He wants several cups to break his cold. Then I’ll put you to bed, Patsy, and give you a good sweat.

PATSY. All right, sir. (_Drinks as before._)

DR. F. (_Aside._) It’s working! Obedient already.

NORAH. Will yez have some more tay, docthor?

DR. F. (_Impatiently._) No, fill Patsy’s cup. Don’t you see it’s empty. (_PATSY drinks._) How do you feel now?

PATSY. Better already, doctor.

DR. F. Have another! There’s nothing like tea. Why, it will cure every ill that flesh is heir to. Norah, fill his cup.

NORAH. I’m pourin’ as fast as I can, sir. What a dale o’ tea he do hold.

PATSY. (_Handing back cup._) Very nice tea, Norah.

NORAH. I could do a dale betther with plenty o’ tay and more time.

DR. F. Norah, why don’t you fill his cup instead of talking. (_During this drinking the people at the door enter and look on with increasing astonishment._) How do you feel now, Patsy?

PATSY. Much better, sir.

DR. F. Head clearer?

PATSY. Well, it’s not as thick as putty an’ it’s not as clear as a June mornin’.

DR. F. Try a few more cups, keep it up. Norah, don’t you see his cup is empty. Pour him another.

NORAH. The mon’ll explode purty soon a drinkin’. He’s swellin’ already. (_Patsy takes cup._)

DR. F. Hold your tongue. The charm’s working finely.

NORAH. Faith it’s time, the tay pot’s impty.

DR. F. (_Jumping up surprised._) Empty! Why girl it holds a gallon!

NORAH. An’ he’s drunk it all. The poor bye must have the stomach of an osterich or a dodo.

DR. F. Patsy, do you mean to say that you have drank a gallon of tea?

PATSY. Faith, I think it’s nearer a barrel.

DR. F. And how do you feel?

PATSY. Like an irrigation canal! (_During these last speeches MRS. F., MISS S. and MIKE gather round back of table, L._)

MRS. F. Doctor Fluke, you’ll kill that man with your experiments.

MISS S. Poor dear man!

DR. F. Silence, ladies. This is a most extraordinary case! (_PATSY stands perfectly still, facing them, left hand to throat as before. Doctor takes him by the shoulder and turns him round. P. does not resist but makes a very wry face._) A remarkable case. Why, I’ve hypnotized him.

MIKE. Begob, I think he’s paralyzed!

MRS. F. What makes the horrid creature act so? He’s got a wild look. (_PATSY rolls his eyes. Women retreat toward door._)

NORAH. I think he’s drownin’, I do.

DR. F. (_Severely._) Patsy, why don’t you speak, what ails you?

PATSY. A bit o’ queerness here. (_Rubs stomach with right hand._)

DR. F. How’s your head?

PATSY. Me head’s all right. It’s me stomach.

DR. F. Do you still imagine you are an Irishman?

PATSY. I am, sir, Irish to the bone. (_Leans forward as if pain in stomach. Rubs stomach with right hand and squirms. All this time he has been holding his throat with left hand and concealing the funnel._)

MRS. F. Says he’s Irish. He’s crazy, Henry. I told you so. He’ll murder us all. (_Movement of all but doctor toward doors as before._)

NORAH. I give notice, Mrs. Fluke. I’ll not live in the house with a crazy mon.

MIKE. Nayther will I. I give up me job. It will be hurtin’ the profession to mix with loonytics an’ Chinese.

DR. F. (_Irritated._) Hold your tongue, Mike. This is a most extraordinary case!

MIKE. Indade it is! First he’s a haythen Chinee. Then he takes a drop too much an’ goes wild an’ pulls the clothes aff other people and says he’s an Irishman, bad luck to him. Another dram’ll turn him into a Dago, I belave. I quits to-day, doctor. (_During this time PATSY’S uneasiness is increasing; finally he begins to prance round. Movement toward doors as before._)

DR. F. Where is your pain, Patsy?

PATSY. (_Groans._) Me stomach feels all queer like.

DR. F. (_Puts hand on P.’S stomach, starts._) And no wonder. Why, it’s hot as fire! And distended like a balloon!

MIKE. (_Nods to ladies, with wise look._) He’s dishtended!

DR. F. Mike, get the stomach pump in the office. Norah, a basin, quick! (_MIKE runs for pump. PATSY makes for door, L. Ladies scream and disappear._)

PATSY. Faith, I’m on fire!

DR. F. (_Seizes him._) We’ll fix you in a minute.

PATSY. Aye, doctor, you’ve fixed me already.

DR. F. (_Holding to PATSY who struggles toward door L._) Quick, Mike! (_MIKE reappears with pump._)

PATSY. You’ll never put that thing down my throat. (_Renews attempt to escape. FLUKE grabs at his throat and catches rubber tube. Ulster comes open. Pulls out bag of hot water and all gaze in astonishment._)

MIKE. By the powers, you’ve pulled the sthomick clane out av’ ’im. (_Pause._) Is that what it looks like? I niver seed one before.

MRS. F. (_In door._) Oh horrors!

MIKE. Hadn’t yez better put it back, docthor? He may nade it.

DR. F. (_Is so astonished that he holds the bag by the tube for a few seconds. Drops it in disgust._) What does this mean, you rascal?

PATSY. (_Determinedly._) It means you can’t fill me up with tea and turn me back into a Chinaman. They did that trick in Hong Kong!

DR. F. (_Crossly._) What are you now? Irish or Chinese?

PATSY. Irish forever.

MISS S. (_Sentimentally._) Dear me! I’m so disappointed. I did hope we had got a real Chinaman.

DR. F. But confound you man, I hired you for a Chinaman. A bargain’s a bargain.

PATSY. That bargain is off.

MIKE. (_Throws down pump._) Then I’m aff, too. Two Irishman in wan house is wan too many.

PATSY. Keep your place, Mike, I can do better. (_All dress stage, women L., men R._) I’m in America now, the land of opportunities. I’m goin’ into politics. Me ambition is to be an alderman and die beloved and respected by all.

MIKE. Begorrah, the ambition of it!

DR. F. Very well, Patsy. Since you are going to have influence let us part friends. (_They shake hands._)

MIKE. Inflooence! Faith, I’ll niver vote a shplit ticket, half Irish half Chinay.

DR. F. Patsy, you have had a strange history.

PATSY. I’ll recount it if you please, doctor.

“Patsy O’Wang,” _Song_. _Air “Pat Malloy.”_

Me father was a Hooligan, me mother was Chinay And I was born in Hong Kong town ten thousand miles away. Me father was a sojer in the tenth artilleree, He took me to the barracks there in Hong Kong by the sea. Me christian name was Patsy and O’Wang me name Chinay; An’ while they all took toddy I drank nothin’ but green tay. One day I brewed the punch meself an’ then I tried the same: Hooray! it touched a vital spot, it lit the Irish flame.

True son of ould Hibernia, I struck for higher pay, I swung it like a gentleman, I drank no more green tay. But all good luck must have an end, there comes adversitee, They sent us to Ameriky ten thousand miles by sea. We sailed and sailed the ragin’ main forever and a day, The boundin’ ocean made us sick, they dosed us with green tay. For twenty hours or more I lay, that poison did me rack: I rose a haythen Chinaman, a queue hung down me back.

Me almond eyes were set askew, me queue twirled round me pate, They called me Chin, I made the duff and boiled the Captain’s mate. A fool for luck the proverb says, a fool O’Wang must be, For now I’m turned true Irishman, bad cess to all Chinee. And in this free Ameriky I’ll have a word to say I’m goin’ into politics, I’ll drink no more green tay. And for the moral of this tale I’m sure it’s very plain: When tipple stirs your blood too much, you’d better just abstain.

_R._ _L._

MIKE, DR. F., PATSY., MRS. F., MISS S., NORAH.

CURTAIN.

REJECTED

OR THE TRIBULATIONS OF AUTHORSHIP

A FARCE

BY T. S. DENISON

_Author of_ Odds with the Enemy, Initiating a Granger, Wanted, a Correspondent, A Family Strike, Seth Greenback, Louva, the Pauper, Hans Von Smash, Borrowing Trouble, Two Ghosts in White, The Pull-Back, Country Justice, The Assessor, The Sparkling Cup, Our Country, Irish Linen Peddler, The School Ma’am, Kansas Immigrants, An Only Daughter, Too Much of a Good Thing, Under the Laurels, Hard Cider, The Danger Signal, Wide Enough for Two, Pets of Society, Is the Editor In? The New Woman, Patsy O’Wang, Rejected, Only Cold Tea, Madam P’s Beauty Parlors, Topp’s Twins, A First-Class Hotel, It’s all in the Pay-Streak, The Cobbler, A Dude in a Cyclone, Friday Dialogues.

_Also the Novels, The Man Behind, An Iron Crown, etc._

CHICAGO: T. S. DENISON, PUBLISHER, 163 RANDOLPH STREET.

REJECTED.

COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY T. S. DENISON.

CAST OF CHARACTERS.

MR. GREATHEAD, of Greathead & Wright, Publishers. MR. POWERS, a tired “reader” for G. & W. MR. ARTHUR WELBY, a turned-down author. MR. RALPH HYDE-ARLINGTON, a poet. Author of “The Dead Canary,” and other poems. MRS. UPPERDYKE FADD, a society novelist. SUSAN ANN BROWN, author of “Winds that Sough in the Night.” MISS BODMAN, stenographer for G. & W. WILLIAM, office boy.

_Time of playing, forty minutes._

HINTS ON COSTUMES AND PLAYING.

Mr. Greathead, dignified business man, very natty business suit, silk tile, etc. Powers, plainly dressed, tired, soured man, but not boorish or coarse in any respect. Welby, rustic manners and dress but rather presentable. Hyde-Arlington, should be unusual, either very tall and ungainly or very stout and prosy looking, hair badly mussed, linen soiled, some buttons missing from coat, shoes with very best shine to contrast with seedy appearance. Droll and good natured. Mrs. Fadd, in latest style of street dress, jewels; puts on airs. Susan Ann Brown, plainly but well dressed, brusque, business like, decisive character. Miss Bodman, neat dress, suitable for office.

STAGE DIRECTIONS.

_R._ means right of the stage _C._, center; _R. C._, right center; _L._, left; _1 E._, first entrance; _U. E._, upper entrance, etc.; _D. F._, door in flat or back of the stage. The actor is supposed to be facing the audience.

REJECTED.

SCENE—_Office of GREATHEAD & WRIGHT, Publishers. Discovered as curtain rises, MR. POWERS a “reader” at desk L., and MISS BODMAN, stenographer, working writing machine R. P. has large pile of MSS. before him. He moves nervously and knocks off leaves that scatter round floor. Rises impatiently._

POWERS. (_Talking to himself aloud._) This is simply killing. It would wear out a cast-iron man. (_Commences picking up sheets._)

MISS B. (_Glancing round._) He’s in a bad humor this morning. Some poor author will suffer for it. (_To P._) Found anything good, Mr. Powers?

POWERS. Such books! Such inanity. Are all the fools in the country turning authors?

MISS B. (_Laughing._) Why, Mr. Powers, you forget you are an author yourself.

P. No, Miss Bodman, I do not forget it. Here I am, a man of genius, capable of winning the admiration of two hemispheres, who has in fact surprised the civilized world already, compelled to earn my bread by delving among the rubbish of a literary muck-heap.

MISS B. Why don’t you quit that and let your own genius loose?

P. Humph! A book like my “Countess Margo, or A Romance of two Castles,” has no chance of winning in this money-grubbing day. People don’t know poetry, romance, pathos, and sympathy when they see it. Genius is extinguished amid the meretricious glitterings of fad literature.

MISS B. Fie, Mr. Powers, I really believe you are jealous of Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd, whose last novel “Sweet Jingles Jangled” set everybody wild.

P. Miss Bodman, I hope I shall never be guilty of jealousy of Mrs. Fadd. Why, my book, “A Romance of Two Castles,” is a prose idyl. It is as different from Mrs. Fadd’s “Sweet Jingles Jangled” as Confucius is different from Brigham Young.

MISS B. Oh, what a comparison! I do admire your command of language!

P. Ah, thank you. You are a woman of appreciation, but the world—bah the world—(_Puts MSS. back on table._)

MISS B. What have you found there to cross you?

P. What have I found? The same old thing—rubbish from the four quarters of the earth; drivel, nine tenths of it absolute, unqualified idiocy.

MISS B. Why, Mr. Powers, you are unusually sarcastic to-day.

P. Haven’t I cause? Here I, the author of “A Romance of Two Castles,” am expected to read for Greathead & Wright, publishers, from two to five books per day—and oh such stuff. I’m expected to decide the fate of a book, subject to the final decision of Mr. Greathead. And I get a scoring if I reject a book that afterward succeeds with some other publisher.

MISS B. For instance, Gen. Radwell’s great book.

P. Miss Bodman, that isn’t a pleasant subject. How should I know that Gen. Radwell’s book would be the greatest hit for a half century? Mr. Greathead stormed, and I believe if it hadn’t been for Mr. Wright I should not to-day be delving in this mountain of verbiage as confidential reader and literary adviser for the great publishing house of Greathead & Wright. (_Slams down MSS. on table beside MISS B.’S desk, R. Rings bell._) I’ll tell Figgs to return that, it is all rot!

MISS B. Why, Mr. Powers, _you_ are positively using slang!

P. I beg pardon, Miss Bodman, but I just couldn’t help it this time. _It is rot._

MISS B. Why, whose book is it?

P. It’s another interminable manuscript from Arthur Welby. That man is a menace to society. He ought to be incarcerated. He keeps several novels on the go all the time. They have been rejected by every publisher on the continent, I believe. _He_ calls himself an author.

MISS B. But pardon me. He has published _one_ book.

P. Oh yes, a book’s a book although there’s nothing in it.

MISS B. But there is something in that one. It made me weep.

P. Yes, and it made his publisher weep too. Had to sell it for old paper at one cent a pound. (_Rings bell again._) Where on earth is that boy!

MISS B. Well, I don’t care, I liked Welby’s book.

P. Oh, some people will like anything. (_MISS B. stares._) I mean, some sloppy critic called Welby the American Dumas and that ruined him. Instead of making his books smooth and—

MISS. B. And stupid!

P. No, in good form, flowing and soothing, he crams them full of stirring scenes in imitation of the old school. If I had to bring out Dumas with his sensationalism, and Dickens with his exaggerations—well they wouldn’t be brought out, that’s certain. (_Jabs bell viciously._) Where is that boy? Asleep again I suppose.

_ENTER office boy, R._

P. Here William, tell Figgs to return this manuscript by express, author’s expense.

W. Yes, sir!

P. Welby’s postage bills will ruin him. William, muss it a little, so he’ll think it has been read. Be careful now. You got chewing gum between the sheets of one book and the author wrote to Mr. Greathead about it.

W. Will a few thumb prints do?

P. Goodness, no! _I_ don’t thumb print my books.

W. Mr. Snap does.

P. Snap! The magazine and the book departments are managed differently. Turn up a corner here and there and displace a sheet occasionally so that when wrapped they will crease. Tell Figgs about that. (_Boy fumbling with MSS. knocks it off table and the sheets fly in every direction. In attempting to catch MSS. he overturns the dish of water used with letter press and it rolls on floor wetting some of sheets._)

MISS. B. (_Springing aside._) Good gracious, William!

P. Just like a boy! A boy’s an animal! You’ve made a pretty mess of things.

W. I’m only mussin’ it, sir. (_They gather up MSS., MISS. B. wiping water from skirts._)

P. Some of it is wet, it must be carefully dried.

MISS. B. I’m afraid it’ll blur badly.

P. Well, he at least cannot complain that it has never been opened. One author actually had the audacity to write that his book had never been opened.

MISS B. Had it?

P. I believe not. That joke was on Snap. They botch things in the magazine department. I am careful to open everything. No need to read it.

MISS B. How _do_ you decide on the merits without reading?

P. Easy enough. There is a sort of recognized literary clique. If a book has the countersign it is read; if it comes from an outsider it is returned at once with thanks, etc. Greathead & Wright, in fact all publishers, seek people with a reputation.

MISS B. Dear me, how does an outsider get in then?

P. He doesn’t get in.

MISS B. But how can an author get a reputation till he has published a book?

P. That’s his affair. He can’t surely expect to publish till he has the reputation.

_ENTER SUSAN ANN BROWN, R. Her manner is brusque in this scene and she talks down all opposition._

SUSAN. Is this the office of Greathead & Wright, Publishers?

P. (_Bowing, comes down C._) It is. What can I do for you, madam?

SUSAN. Mr. Greathead in?

P. Your name?

SUSAN. Susan Ann Brown. Is Mr. Greathead in?

P. Not at present, it’s a little early.

SUSAN. Wright in?

P. (_Astonished at her manner._) He is out of the city, madam. Can’t I do something for you? Your business?

SUSAN. (_With air of contempt for his position._) I don’t think you can. I called on very important business!

P. I am here to attend to business!

SUSAN. I can’t talk to clerks! I want to see one of the firm.

P. If it is an order for books, the counting room is just across the hall.

SUSAN. (_With toss of head._) It isn’t an order. I am an author. Have a novel, “Winds that Sough in the Night,” 1,100 pages.

P. Madam, it is my business to take charge of manuscripts. I—

SUSAN. (_Emphatically._) No, you don’t. I’ve heard of your ways. Nobody but the firm will read my book.

P. But that is impossible. Our plan—

SUSAN. Is to give manuscripts to some clerk to be fumbled over. As if a ten dollar clerk was the arbiter of literature; or may be you send it out to some society woman whose husband has failed in business, as if that had fitted her to decide anything.

P. But madam, if you will allow me, we consider our readers competent.

SUSAN. And _I_ think (_talks fast and emphatically but distinctly_) an author knows something about a book too, after toiling at it for months. Humph, do you suppose I’ve been living so long for nothing and writing all my life, too? Your plan, indeed! My book “Winds that Sough in the Night” deals with _Theosophy_. You would give that to some man who thinks Theosophy all a humbug. He’d laugh at it and I’d be out my postage. If my book was an exposé of Theosophy, you would give it to some man who believed in the thing and he’d turn it down for spite. Author out again—say, when’ll Greathead be in?

P. I should say inside half an hour.

SUSAN. Which had I better see, Mr. Greathead or Mr. Wright?

P. (_Resignedly._) Either will do.

SUSAN. Then I’ll see Greathead first.

P. Have you a letter of introduction, madam?

SUSAN. Don’t need any. I introduce myself. If Greathead doesn’t come around to my views I’ll see Wright. If he is not convinced, I’ll get the two together and tell ’em what they are missing if they reject my novel. Why, it is equal to Uncle Tom’s Cabin and it is longer than “Robert El Smere.”

P. (_Getting impatient._) Miss Brown, excuse me, I am very busy, will you leave a card?

SUSAN. No, I’ll be back in half an hour.

P. But what shall I say?

SUSAN. Nothing. I’ll do the talking. I was a book agent for five years.

P. Oh!

SUSAN. And I’ve been in New York before! Don’t forget that. And I’ve sold Greathead’s books. I guess I’m not afraid of him. (_Exit, R._)

MISS B. (_Drawing long breath._) Did you ever!

P. Regular cyclone! Electric motor, quick action.

MISS B. What will Mr. Greathead say to her?

P. Trust him. He was a life insurance agent before he was a publisher.

_ENTER MR. GREATHEAD, R._

MR. G. Good morning, Powers. Good morning, Miss Bodman.

P. } } Good morning, Mr. Greathead. MISS B. }

MR. G. Mr. Powers, has the printer sent over press proofs of Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd’s novel “Miss Ducie’s Mistake?”

P. They are on your desk, sir.

MR. G. (_Going toward private office, D. F._) Mr. Powers, if that man Welby calls, positively, I can not see him. I suspect he is after me. It is in very bad taste the way he is hounding publishers.

P. Very, sir. I understand that Mr. Scooper of Scooper & Puff came pretty near ejecting him from their office yesterday.

MR. G. That would do for Scooper & Puff but not for Greathead & Wright. We aim to treat all authors with the utmost courtesy. It is business, you see.

P. Exactly, I’ll attend to him. I have already examined his book.

MR. G. What, already? It was only left late last evening you know.

P. I did not read it _all_. Same old thing. Harrowing scenes, sensational and low types of people.

MR. G. There’s something in Welby. I confess his books interest me.

P. Yes, he persists in following the old style and strives to make his books interesting instead of easy, polished, soothing. In short, he wholly ignores good form.

MR. G. I had hopes for him once.

P. I had none. He insists in crowding his books with incidents. Admires Dumas.

P. Just so, a hopeless case! (_Exit G., D. F._)

P. Now, Miss Bodman, let me dictate the letters to Welby and Ralph Hyde-Arlington. I’d send the printed form: “We have carefully read your valuable MS. and beg to say that our reader does not advise us to undertake its publication, etc. Thanks for esteemed favor,” etc.

MISS B. And all that, taffy rejection of a MS. does not imply literary deficiency, etc.

P. I’d give that to all of them straight, but apparently Mr. Greathead has promised these two pretenders that their MSS. shall have special attention. I think Welby’s got it, too. (_Laughs._)

MISS B. Mr. Welby would like a line as to the _reason_ his MS. is found unavailable, in case it is returned. Poor man! he seemed to have a presentiment of refusal.

P. Yes, apparently that is the only sane point left in Welby. He has presentiments. He knows he is going to get it in the neck.

MISS B. Really, Mr. Powers, your language is shocking to-day.

P. I can’t help it. Just think! In the last three days some score of rejected authors have been insisting on reasons, and I can’t give reasons. Mr. Greathead has forbidden it.

MISS B. But don’t you think an author is entitled to some consideration where his own hard labor is concerned?

P. Great Scott! If I tried to satisfy them all I’d be in an insane asylum before a month. They manage that better in the magazine department. Mr. Wright is a man of business. He has given orders to stop all authors in the vestibule, take their books away from them and show them out.

_ENTER WILLIAM, R., carrying enormous armful of MSS. in packages and envelopes. Some fall to floor. Puts them on P.’s desk. A roll remains on floor._

P. (_Groans._) Look at that pile, one mail!

WILLIAM. (_Aside._) That’ll make the old man sweat. (_Starts out and stumbles over roll, falls sprawling._)

P. Look at your carelessness! Pick that up. The dunce has rolled it. The magazine department refuses to look at anything that is rolled. But I am a drudge. I _have_ to do it. Greathead is too easy.

MISS B. But our letters, Mr. Powers,—

P. (_Groans._) I’ll make them short. (_Dictates._) “Mr. Arthur Welby, Mount Hope, Ill.—You had better move to mount Despair—”

MISS B. Do I take all that?

P. No, of course not. I’m talking now.

MISS B. I see.

P. There are precious few authors anywhere in America, and as for the West and especially Chicago—pah!

MISS B. I suppose the best can come only from Europe.

P. Decidedly.

MISS B. America was not big enough to produce “A Romance of Two Castles.”

P. Miss Bodman, sarcasm is wasted in this office. If you do not like my book—once is sufficient to tell me. (_Spitefully._) Of course, if you like Arthur Welby’s novel, “The Man from Mattoon,” you couldn’t like mine. Go on please, you have the address.

MISS B. (_Tartly._) I’m waiting to go on. (_Reads._) “Mr. Arthur Welby, Mt. Hope, Ill.”

P. Dear Sir—We have read carefully the MSS. of your very interesting story—

MISS B. What a fib!

P. Miss Bodman, you will please not interrupt—“The Governor’s Daughter.” We regret that it is not exactly suited to our present needs. Thanking you for the opportunity of reading your very original book we are, Very respectfully, Greathead & Wright. Now for that irrepressible poet, Mr. Ralph Hyde-Arlington.

MISS B. I hope you are not going to reject him.

P. I should say rather. Why not?

MISS B. Some of his poems are just lovely.

P. Stuff! Nothing but jingle!

MISS B. Quite the contrary. His “Lines to a Dead Canary” are full of pathos and sentiment.

P. Well, I admit that Hyde-Arlington’s lines have a certain go about them suited to these times when ideas are superfluous in literature.

MISS B. (_With sentiment._) What is your ideal of him, Mr. Powers.

P. Hum, I have no time to form ideals.

MISS B. His name is quite romantic, Ralph Hyde-Arlington.

P. Yes, it looks well on a title page.

MISS B. I think he must be tall and handsome, with dreamy eyes and dark curling locks. His sentiment is _so_ tender. He must be an Apollo.

P. Possibly. I hope we shan’t have to verify that. He’s in the city now.

MISS B. I hope he’ll call.

P. (_Emphatically._) I hope he will not. You know I dread the sight of an author as I dread small pox. Now for his letter.

_ENTER WILLIAM, suddenly, R._

WILLIAM. Mr. Welby’s here again. He’s kind o’ excited. (_P. jumps up. Thrusts W.’S letter into boy’s hand._)

P. Mail that immediately, William. (_To MISS B._) Tell Welby we’ve written. Say anything. Get rid of him. (_Exit hastily, L._)

_ENTER WELBY, R._

W. I beg pardon, Miss, I just called to say that I’ll be in town three or four days yet. My address is Fifth Avenue Hotel.

MISS B. Yes, sir, I’ll note that.

W. (_Hesitating._) My book was to have immediate attention. I suppose it is in hand to-day. (_Boy at door grins, holds letter, MISS B. nods to him._)

MISS B. I think that it is—that is—oh, I remember. The house has written you.

W. (_Excitedly._) Oh, so soon. Then they must want an interview. In that case I am at their service. I’ll wait now.

MISS B. (_Perplexed._) Oh, no—I meant (_winks at W. again_) that is you had better see the letter.

_ENTER RALPH, R._

RALPH. Is this the office of Greathead & Wright, Publishers?

MISS B. Yes, sir, the counting room is just across the hall.

RALPH. The counting room is not what I want. I seek an interview with the firm.

MISS B. That is impossible. Mr. Wright has gone to Boston and Mr. Greathead has been very busy of late with authors.

RALPH. Then Greathead is my man, I am an author.

MISS B. (_Surprised._) In that case I’ll leave your card on his desk.

RALPH. I have no card. Poets can’t afford cards. Just say Ralph Hyde-Arlington.

MISS B. (_Starts, drops note book._) Oh! You are Mr. Ralph Hyde-Arlington!

RALPH. (_Bowing._) I am, Miss, at your service, Ralph Hyde-Arlington, author of “The Dead Canary and Other Poems.”

WELBY. (_Picking up note book._) Allow me, miss!

MISS B. Goodness me!

WELBY. Are you ill, Miss Bodman?

MISS B. No, thank you! Just a momentary dizziness.

RALPH. How my appearance affects her! (_Looks proud._)

MISS B. It’s gone now. Allow me Mr. Arthur Welby, novelist, to introduce Mr. Ralph Hyde-Arlington, poet. (_They shake hands down C._)

WELBY. Ah! this is a pleasure, Mr. Hyde-Arlington. My wife likes the “Dead Canary” very much.

RALPH. (_Bowing._) Thank you! Thank you!

WELBY. In fact it is her favorite poem. By the way, of course you’ve read my novel, “The Man from Mattoon.”

RALPH. (_Confused._) No, I haven’t. I am reserving that pleasure. It is inexcusable of me to have put off so long, for it is a work of genius. (_W. bows._) But you see I’m a poor man and poetry doesn’t pay. We’ve quite a family too—nine children now.

MISS B. (_Exclaiming suddenly._) Oh, goodness—I beg pardon, gentlemen. (_Goes up to her type-writing machine._)

W. Really, I fear she is ill.

RALPH. (_Aside to W._) It is our presence that affects her.

W. (_Starting._) No.

RALPH. Sure!

W. (_To MISS B._) Do you feel better?

MISS B. I am all right now, thank you. (_Rings bell._) Gentlemen, I’ll have you shown to the reception room where you can converse undisturbed.

W. (_To RALPH._) I’ll send you a copy of, “The Man from Mattoon.”

RALPH. Thanks, I’ll send you a “Dead Canary.”

_ENTER WILLIAM, R._

MISS. B. William, show these gentlemen into reception room. And ask Mr. Robinson the bookkeeper, to step here a moment. (_Exeunt, R._) Well, I never! That man the poet, Ralph Hyde-Arlington. He looks like a junk dealer, and married and nine children! Horrors! I thought Lollie June Tibbie must be a willowy school girl, but she proves to be forty and weighs 180. Oh, the surprises of literature! Arlington’s face would stop a clock.

_RE-ENTER WILLIAM, R._

WILLIAM. Robinson says he just wont take any more poets out to lunch.

MISS B. Why?

WILLIAM. He went out with four yesterday, an’ to-day he’s nearly dead with dyspepsy, or whatever ye call it.

MISS B. Let the firm pay his doctor bill. I’m not here to get rid of people.

WILLIAM. He’s been takin’ pepsicum all day an’ says he just wont do it fur nobody. (_Exit W., R._)

_ENTER MR. G. and P. from D. F._

P. (_Anxiously._) Have they gone?

MISS B. No, they are in the reception room.

MR. G. Powers, I’ll leave it to you. I simply can’t see Mr. Welby again. This is the fifth time we have turned him down.

P. Miss Bodman has mailed him a letter, and—by the way, where did you send that letter?

MISS B. Why to the Fifth Avenue hotel of course.

P. Oh, reckless young woman! now you have done it. He’ll get that letter and be back here in fifteen minutes, wanting _reasons_. The letter should have gone to Mount Despair, Illinois.

MISS B. You mean _Mount Hope_.

P. Yes, of course. Why didn’t you send it to Mount Hope?

MISS B. Because you gave me his card with Fifth Avenue Hotel address.

MR. G. We’ll have the bookkeeper take him to lunch.

MISS B. Robinson refuses. Says he is already dying of indigestion.

MR. G. Then it devolves on you, Powers.

P. Mr. Greathead, I have heart trouble. Send for Snap.

MR. G. (_Laughs._) I’ll put both of them in on Snap. That’ll be a good joke, eh Powers?

P. Oh very funny, sir. Snap played me that trick once.

MR. G. By the way, Miss Bodman, you had better take your lunch.

MISS B. Yes, sir. (_Exit B. R._)

MR. G. Powers, what do you think of Mr. Wilbur B. Chapter-Chapter’s new novel?

P. What can you expect from Chicago?

MR. G. But Chicago has her 400 now.

P. They _think_ they have.

MR. G. That amounts to the same thing. They will buy Mr. Chapter-Chapter’s book solely because he is in the 400.

P. Then you will sell it chiefly on the binding?

MR. G. Certainly! The most successful books nowadays owe part of their success to the binder, just as the stage carpenter builds a play.

P. I think you are right, they have plenty of money in Chicago—and pork.

MR. G. Powers, you are prejudiced against the West. We must cater to them.

P. Very well, sir. Chapter-Chapter’s book is good enough for a caterer. There’s nothing in it.

MR. G. That makes no difference. Ideas make literature but paper will make books.

P. And it lacks the smooth, gum drop style of Mrs. Fadd’s “Sweet Jingles Jangled.”

MR. G. (_Laughs._) Gum-drops! Powers, you are rather severe on Mrs. Fadd. We can’t expect to equal her great book more than once in a decade. The only point to be considered is this: Is Chapter-Chapter’s book in good form?

P. Oh, the best. Why, he led the ball given in honor of Princess Eulalia.

MR. G. That fact alone is a capital start. We’ll state it in the preface.

P. And he dedicated the Joss House erected by the Century Club to the adoration of the “Heavenly Twins.”

MR. G. Enough! We will publish Chapter-Chapter’s book.

P. We should have it endorsed by the Supreme Council of the New York Pow Wow.

MR. G. That is very _easy_. The secretary will write us a “Letter.”

_ENTER WILLIAM, R._

WILLIAM. Mr. Greathead, Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd has called.

MR. G. (_Pleased._) Show her in, William. Powers, do your best. She likes compliment and she’s the greatest writer of the time.

P. You mean _seller_, Mr. Greathead.

MR. G. Yes, yes, but do try to worship her a little, business you know.

_ENTER MRS. FADD, R._

MR. G. (_Effusively._) My dear Mrs. Fadd, this is indeed a pleasure. (_Places chair, C._)

P. (_Bowing._) Yes, unfortunately we see so little of authors, those wonderful people who make the world laugh or weep at their will.

MR. G. (_Tapping P.’S shoulder._) Very neat! I couldn’t have said it so well.

MRS. F. (_Dropping in chair._) You are very kind gentlemen. But I’m here on business. How are the books selling?

MR. G. The success of your book is simply phenomenal. The sales of “Sweet Jingles Jangled” marks an era in the book business. Presses running day and night. The name of Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd is on every tongue, club talk, society talk, street car talk—why I overheard one newsboy ask another: “Tim wot the dickens did that Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd do?” (_All laugh._)

MRS. F. Yes, they do talk about me. (_Laughs._) Penalty of fame! And I am bored to death with letters from everywhere on earth about goodness knows what all, but mostly wanting subscriptions to something or other.

MR. G. The penalty of greatness, madam!

MRS. F. The only thing that I shall really push, however, is the new Infirmary for Superannuated Lap-dogs. One must concentrate nowadays. They’ve made me a director in that. Mrs. Wilton Schuyler Vanderzumboom is president. It is an enterprise undertaken exclusively by the most fashionable society. They are breaking their necks in the scramble to get in.

P. Who, the lap-dogs?

MRS. F. Oh dear, no, the ladies. How absurd!

MR. G. That’s only a little joke of Powers’. (_Gives P. a warning look._) It is a most commendable thing—

MRS. F. Apparently the day is past when a jest has any relation to a witticism.

MR. G. No, no, you will have your joke too, Mrs. Fadd. I mean the hospital.

MRS. F. _Infirmary_, Mr. Greathead! One is expected to do something and there are so many causes worthy of help. I hesitated between the Humane Society and the Infirmary for Superannuated Lap-dogs. Then I thought I’d better limit myself.

MR. G. By the way, Mrs. Fadd, I hope you won’t let anything interfere with your contract with Greathead & Wright. Two novels per month, you know, is the agreement.

MRS. F. Pshaw! I could make it four, I really believe, I write so very easily.

MR. G. By the way, Mr. Powers, that reminds me that we ought to have Mrs. Fadd interviewed again. She hasn’t been interviewed for nearly a month. Suppose we do it now and send slips to the papers at once.

P. Miss Bodman is not here.

MR. G. Couldn’t you manage to take it?

P. Possibly, yes. (_Gets writing pad and seats himself at desk._)

MR. G. The public is very much interested in celebrities just now. Napoleon you know, and Pillby. The politician held sway a long time but now the other people are falling into line. When the public hears of success, they want to know all about its possessor. The public idolize success. Now the papers are publishing portraits of dashing Board of Trade men, brilliant, brainy pork-packers, solid real estate men, smooth oil refiners, expansive gas operators.

P. I have seen a write-up of a philanthropic operator in fire sales, ten-cent counter goods, etc.; made his million of course. This is a progressive age.

MR. G. Now, Mrs. Fadd, be kind enough to answer:

Q. What kind of paper do you write on?

A. Cream laid, note size.

P. Jersey cream?

MR. G. Powers, you are getting so absent-minded. This is an interview of a literary celebrity.

Q. What sort of chair do you sit in?

A. Cane bottomed.

Q. Straight back or curved?

A. Slightly curved.

Q. You write easily?

A. Oh very! Why, it’s just dead easy. Goodness me! What did the old-fashioned author do with his time, I’d like to know. We read that they wrote and scratched out and groaned and sweat; why I can’t understand it. I drop the sheets on floor with my left hand, (_MR. G. “Got that Powers? With her left hand.”_) like clock work, a sheet every five minutes, twelve sheets an hour. Six thousand words per day.

MR. G. Just think of it. A most prolific pen.

P. Yes, the female pen is often very prolific.

Q. Do you have moods, Mrs. Fadd?

MRS. F. Why, as to grammar—

MR. G. I mean the other kind of moods.

A. _Moods!_ no indeed, if I had moods the public would discern them. I set myself a standard of uniformity and compel myself to attain it. When I wrote “Sweet Jingles Jangled” I set myself to please. Labored efforts never please. I said there shouldn’t be an idea in the book, and there isn’t. The mistake of the old authors was in thinking the public wanted ideas. It does not want to be bored with ideas. It wants smooth, flowing, soothing—what shall I say?

P. Stuff.

MRS. F. No, there is a better word. (_Thinks._) Dear me—for the present we’ll say stuff, that may be read any where at any time without the possibility of exciting thought or provoking tiresome discussion. That’s why the public likes Mrs. Fadd. It knows Mrs. Fadd is both safe and entertaining.

Q. Mrs. Fadd do you revise much?

A. Oh, never! I consider revision the rock on which many authors have foundered. The moment you begin to revise you break in upon that flowing smoothness which the public likes, and then your stuff doesn’t appear fresh. If you revise, your work is sure to show it, and that the public resents, says you are straining after effect. Why, we read of one of the old authors who rode round town for an entire day in a half demented condition, in a cab, to the great alarm of the driver. At last throwing open the door, he jumped wildly into the street, at the risk of his neck, exclaiming: “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” The cabman greatly relieved thought he alluded to the fare and replied! “All right, sir! Seven hours, one dollar an hour.” (_All laugh._) The author angrily replied: “You fool, I’m talking about a word I wanted. At last I’ve got it.” Now is it any wonder that authors who drove round in cabs looking for words were always in indigent circumstances?

P. A dictionary would be cheaper.

MR. G. Decidedly! Now as to your personal life, Mrs. Fadd, the public insists on knowing those things.

MRS. F. I’m sure I don’t object to telling.

Q. Do you take cream in your coffee?

A. At breakfast, not at dinner.

Q. Sugar?

A. Yes.

Q. How many lumps?

A. Two at breakfast, one at dinner.

MR. G. Note that Powers; curious eccentricity in the matter of sugar. Expand that a little.

Q. Whose soap do you use?

A. Quince’s.

Q. If you only took a cigarette occasionally it would add piquancy you know; royalty does it, duchesses and all the _bizarre_ people.

MRS. F. Oh, I _do_ smoke a little but you really must not put that in, I—

_ENTER brusquely SUSAN ANN BROWN, R._

SUSAN. Is this Mr. Greathead?

MRS. F. (_Jumping up._) Oh dear! What if she heard! She may think I smoke a pipe. Goodness me! (_Runs out L._)

SUSAN. Is this Mr. Greathead?

MR. G. It is madam, at your service.

SUSAN. I am Susan Ann Brown, author of “Winds that Sough in the Night,” the greatest novel of the day, 1,100 pages, 300,000 words.

MR. G. To be sure. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Powers our “Reader.” He will examine your book.

SUSAN. I want Mr. Greathead to read it.

MR. G. That is simply impossible. Have an engagement. Mr. Powers is next to me.

SUSAN. I guess the best way is for me to call again. I’ll read it to you myself.

MR. G. Eleven hundred pages! Excuse me, madam, I have an urgent engagement (_looks at watch_). Past time now! Here, Powers, attend to the lady. (_Rushes out L._)

SUSAN. (_To P._) So you are next to him. If _you_ decide you must first hear every line, no skipping. I’ll see to that myself.

P. (_Sits at his desk and commences to fumble MSS., out of humor._) My dear madam, our plan—

SUSAN. And my plan is to do nothing half way.

P. But, Miss Brown, I really never could listen well. My ear I think—

SUSAN. I’ve a strong voice. I guess my way’s best. I’m a good reader. (_Pulls up chair beside him to his surprise, sits, opens MS._)

P. (_Groans._) But madam, this isn’t regular.

SUSAN. I’ve heard all about your putting off authors. Now I’m here and I’m going to be heard.

P. Good Lord, madam—

SUSAN. Just keep cool now. If you once hear “Winds that Sough in the Night” you’ll want it. (_Reads._) “One evening, some thirty years ago, a solitary horseman was seen winding his way over the bare, snow-clad hills as the red December sun was slowly sinking in the western horizon. As he rode along he was immersed in—”

P. (_Frantically._) The river, I hope.

SUSAN. We should get on better if you did not anticipate, Powers.

P. Anticipate! (_Jumps and rings bell. Instantly gong sounds outside. SUSAN jumps up in alarm, drops leaf of MS._)

SUSAN. What was that? (_Gong again very loud._)

P. Fire, madam, the place is on fire! Escape for your life

SUSAN. Merciful heaven, and if my precious book should be burned. Why, my book is a legacy for the ages. (_Rushes wildly out R. hugging MS._)

P. (_Laughs._) That’s our last resort in self-defense. Now may be I can do some work. (_Goes to desk and takes up MS._)

_RE-ENTER WELBY, R._

W. I got that letter, Mr. Powers. I hardly expected that.

P. They never do expect it.

W. What are your reasons for rejecting my great book, “The Governor’s Daughter?”

P. Because we did not want it.

W. Sir, you are insulting.

P. Very well, abuse me if you choose. I’m only an employé. I have to be polite.

W. But has an author no rights? Must he go on forever like the Wandering Jew and never be told anything? If I were your tailor you would tell me what was the matter.

P. It costs more to put a book to press than it does a coat.

W. I could possibly fix up the book or write one that would please you.

P. I’m very sorry, Mr. Welby, but I’m only part of a vast machine and we can’t give reasons for everything we do.

W. But Mr. Greathead practically promised me an interview.

P. Then see him.

W. How can I see him when he’s never visible?

P. I’ll call him. (_Raps, D. F._)

_ENTER G._

MR. G. (_Starts back, surprised._) Ah, is it you, Mr. Welby?

W. Yes. May I ask something about my book?

MR. G. Why, really it’s against our rules but, Powers, suppose you take Mr. Welby out to lunch and talk with him.

W. I much prefer to see you, sir. I agree not to bore you.

MR. G. (_Gets hat._) Then suppose you do me the honor of lunching with me at the Club.

W. With pleasure. (_Exeunt, R._)

P. (_Dropping in chair._) I shall have softening of the brain, I know it, I feel it coming on.

_ENTER RALPH, R._

RALPH. Mr. Greathead in yet?

P. No.

RALPH. I’ve been waiting in the reception room two hours.

P. I’m very sorry.

RALPH. Where is he? I’ll follow him all over New York.

P. (_Wearily._) Gone to lunch with Mr. Welby.

RALPH. Welby, ha! Welby is taking advantage of me. Why didn’t I invite Mr. Greathead to lunch with me. (_Runs fingers through hair, assumes dignified air which is very comical._) May be I’m not so well dressed as Welby, but clothes have nothing to do with literature.

P. But they do with books.

RALPH. A fine distinction. Mrs. Fadd wears good clothes. Mr. Powers, while we are all alone, suppose I just read you a few poems from my new volume, “The Pith Soldier, and Other Poems?” They far surpass the “Dead Canary.” You’ll want them.

P. Mr. Hyde-Arlington, we never do that. It’s against the rules.

RALPH. I mean just in an informal way between ourselves. You know the success attained by my “Dead Canary.”

P. Impossible, my dear sir. The building may take fire.

RALPH. (_Starting._) Fire! What’s that you said?

P. I mean—go on sir. (R. _begins unwrapping package._)

P. (_Aside._) I’ll try the fire alarm. (_Before he can ring bell_)—

_ENTER, R. hastily, SUSAN._

SUSAN. Young man, that was a false alarm. There wasn’t any fire.

RALPH. Fire! No, my poetry is not as hot as Mrs. Wheelwright’s.

SUSAN. (_Ignores R._) I lost a page of my book. I couldn’t lose the least bit of it for the world. It is my heart’s blood, drop by drop—oh, there it is! (_Picks page under chair._) Oh, how I’ve worked on that book, I’ve burned for hours the midnight oil with aching head and ceaseless toil. There! I didn’t mean to make poetry.

RALPH. (_Sarcastically._) You haven’t made any.

SUSAN. (_With withering glance._) Who are you, I’d like to know?

RALPH. I am Ralph Hyde-Arlington, poet, author of “The Dead Canary, and Other Poems.”

SUSAN. And I am Susan Ann Brown, novelist, author of “Winds that Sough in the Night.”

RALPH. Excuse me, madam, but you have interrupted us. I was about to read my poems to Mr. Powers.

SUSAN. Excuse _me_. I was here first. (_POWERS in glee watches dispute, rubs hands, then quietly gets hat and steals out L._)

RALPH. But you went out madam. A publishing house is like a barber shop.

SUSAN. (_Snorts._) Barber shop!

RALPH. Yes, when you leave you lose your turn.

SUSAN. Humph! I don’t know anything about barber shops, and I guess from your appearance you haven’t been in one lately either.

RALPH. Madam, the natural gallantry which appertains to my sex and calling forbids me to argue this question further with a lady. (_Sees that P. is gone, gives knowing look._) Satisfied of my own rights in the matter I yield to you, I go. (_Bows, exit R._)

SUSAN. He’s not so bad after all. But what a difference between poetry and its producers. All contrast in this world! Now Mr. Powers—(_reads same paragraph as before, looks up, discovers P. is gone, screams_)—all gone! That fire must be real, for there isn’t a soul in sight. (_Gong again._) Oh dear, if my novel should be burned it would be an irreparable loss to the world. The very thought makes me shudder. (_Runs out R. crying_ “fire! fire!”)

QUICK CURTAIN.

THE NEW WOMAN

A COMEDY OF A. D. 1950

IN THREE ACTS

BY T. S. DENISON

_Author of_ Odds with the Enemy, Initiating a Granger, Wanted, a Correspondent, A Family Strike, Seth Greenback, Louva, the Pauper, Hans Von Smash, Borrowing Trouble, Two Ghosts in White, The Pull-Back, Country Justice, The Assessor, The Sparkling Cup, Our Country, Irish Linen Peddler, The School Ma’am, Kansas Immigrants, An Only Daughter, Too Much of a Good Thing, Under the Laurels, Hard Cider, The Danger Signal, Wide Enough for Two, Pets of Society, Is the Editor In? The New Woman, Patsy O’Wang, Rejected, Only Cold Tea, Madam P’s Beauty Parlors, Topp’s Twins, A First-Class Hotel, It’s all in the Pay-Streak, The Cobbler, A Dude in a Cyclone, Friday Dialogues.

_Also the Novels, The Man Behind, An Iron Crown, etc._

CHICAGO: T. S. DENISON, PUBLISHER, 163 RANDOLPH STREET.

THE NEW WOMAN.

COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY T. S. DENISON.

CHARACTERS.

_Women._

MISS PINK T. HYKIGHT, Pres. of Club, who has never found a man good enough for her. Motto of the Hykight’s “Soaring.” MISS ROSA LIGHTFOOT, Secretary. Young and pretty. MISS DOLLIE GIGLETTE, who is up to date. MISS BIRDIE ROBBINS, no longer a “chicken,” and intensely anti-man. MISS DAISY DOUGHFLYER, (Duffy, from the French Du Fay). MARY, the stewardess who is known as “Smilax.” OTHER WOMEN, only talked about—Ernestine Arlington, who is engaged, and Willie Jones (not a boy), who is so very timid that the only thing she can do is to elope.

_Horrid men._

JACK BLAKE, a collector for the gas company who is misunderstood by Miss Hykight but much better understood by Rosa. BERTIE HOWELL, “at leisure, don’t you know” and has time to fawnsy Daisy. MACK, the ice man who fancies Mary.

_Time of playing, one hour._

STAGE DIRECTIONS.

_R._ means right of the stage _C._, center; _R. C._, right center; _L._, left; _1 E._, first entrance; _U. E._, upper entrance, etc.; _D. F._, door in flat or back of the stage. The actor is supposed to be facing the audience.

COSTUMES.

BIRDIE ROBBINS, make-up of prim old maid.

MISS PINK T. HYKIGHT, stylish, modern according to taste.

DOLLIE GIGLETTE, mannish and easy swagger of a polite swell.

MARY, neat working dress.

OTHER LADIES, modern, according to taste.

BERTIE, _First Act_. Swell dude, bloomers, veil, long, pointed shoes with gilt chains from knee-buckles to toes of shoes, eye-glass, cane, and any other suitable extravagance. He must not however look vulgar. _Second Act._ Blue or brown drilling pants and working coat, slouch hat, whiskers, plumber’s kit, tongs, lead pipe, hammer, etc.

BLAKE, first appearance, plain business suit; second appearance more natty with buttonhole bouquet.

MACK, blue or brown wool shirt, overalls, slouch hat.

PROPERTIES.

Vase of flowers, letters for case, writing materials, book for club roll, hammer, pincers, solder, etc., for plumber all wrapped in piece of carpet; cane, eye-glass, coins.

NOTE—This play may be made very amusing if the actors enter heartily into the spirit of its absurdities. This is specially true of Bertie Howells and Dollie Giglette, but care must be exercised to avoid anything approaching coarseness.

THE NEW WOMAN.