Part 1
GEO. M. BAKER’S
NEW PLAYS.
=PAST REDEMPTION.= 4 Acts. Price 25 cts. =COMRADES.= 3 Acts. Price 25 cts. =TITANIA.= A Fairy Play for Children. 2 Acts. Price 25 cts. =OUR FOLKS.= 3 Acts. Price 15 cts. =SANTA CLAUS THE FIRST.= A Christmas play for children. By F. E. Chase. 25 c. =REBECCA’S TRIUMPH.= For female characters only. Price 25 cts.
Copyright, 1876, by GEORGE M. BAKER.
* * * * *
Spencer’s Universal Stage.
_A Collection of COMEDIES, DRAMAS, and FARCES, adapted to either Public or Private Performance. Containing a full description of all the necessary Stage Business._
PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. ☞ No Plays Exchanged.
1. LOST IN LONDON. A Drama in 3 Acts. 6 male, 4 female characters.
2. NICHOLAS FLAM. A Comedy in 2 Acts. By J. B. Buckstone. 5 male, 3 female char.
3. THE WELSH GIRL. A Comedy in 1 Act. By Mrs. Planche. 3 male, 2 female char.
4. JOHN WOPPS. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 4 male, 2 female char.
5. THE TURKISH BATH. A Farce in 1 Act. By Montague Williams and F. C. Burnand. 6 male, 1 female char.
6. THE TWO PUDDIFOOTS. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char.
7. OLD HONESTY. A Comic Drama in 2 Acts. By J. M. Morton. 5 male, 2 female char.
8. TWO GENTLEMEN IN A FIX. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 2 male char.
9. SMASHINGTON GOIT. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 5 male, 3 female char.
10. TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE. A Farce in 1 Act. By Lenox Horne. 4 male, 1 female char.
11. JOHN DOBBS. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 5 male, 2 female char.
12. THE DAUGHTER of the REGIMENT. A Drama in 2 Acts. By Edward Fitzball, 6 male, 2 female char.
13. AUNT CHARLOTTE’S MAID. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char.
14. BROTHER BILL AND ME. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 4 male, 3 female char.
15. DONE ON BOTH SIDES. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 2 female char.
16. DUNDUCKETTY’S PICNIC. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 6 male, 3 female char.
17. I’VE WRITTEN TO BROWNE. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 4 male, 3 female char.
19. MY PRECIOUS BETSY. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 4 male, 4 female char.
20. MY TURN NEXT. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 4 male, 3 female char.
22. THE PHANTOM BREAKFAST. A Farce in 1 Act. By Chas. Selby. 3 male, 2 female char.
23. DANDELION’S DODGES. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 4 male, 2 female char.
24. A SLICE OF LUCK. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 4 male, 2 female char.
25. ALWAYS INTENDED. A Comedy in 1 Act. By Horace Wigan. 3 male, 3 female char.
26. A BULL IN A CHINA SHOP. A Comedy in 2 Acts. By Charles Matthews. 6 male, 4 female char.
27. ANOTHER GLASS. A Drama in 1 Act. By Thomas Morton. 6 male, 3 female char.
28. BOWLED OUT. A Farce in 1 Act. By H. T. Craven. 4 male, 3 female char.
29. COUSIN TOM. A Commedietta in 1 Act. By Geo. Roberts. 3 male, 2 female char.
30. SARAH’S YOUNG MAN. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 3 male, 3 female char.
31. HIT HIM, HE HAS NO FRIENDS. A Farce in 1 Act. By E. Yates and N. H. Harrington. 7 male, 3 female char.
32. THE CHRISTENING. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. B. Buckstone. 5 male, 6 female char.
33. A RACE FOR A WIDOW. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 5 male, 4 female char.
34. YOUR LIFE’S IN DANGER. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char.
35. TRUE UNTO DEATH. A Drama in 2 Acts. By J. Sheridan Knowles. 6 male, 2 female char.
36. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. An Interlude in 1 Act. By W. H. Murray. 10 male, 1 female char.
37. LOOK AFTER BROWN. A Farce in 1 Act. By George A. Stuart, M. D. 6 male, 1 female char.
38. MONSEIGNEUR. A Drama in 3 Acts. By Thomas Archer. 15 male, 3 female char.
39. A VERY PLEASANT EVENING. A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 3 male char.
40. BROTHER BEN. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 3 female char.
41. ONLY A CLOD. A Comic Drama in 1 Act. By J. P. Simpson. 4 male, 1 female char.
42. GASPARDO THE GONDOLIER. A Drama in 3 Acts. By George Almar. 10 male, 2 female char.
43. SUNSHINE THROUGH THE CLOUDS. A Drama in 1 Act. By Slingsby Lawrence. 3 male, 3 female char.
44. DON’T JUDGE BY APPEARANCES. A Farce in 1 Act. By J. M. Morton. 3 male, 2 female char.
45. NURSEY CHICKWEED. A Farce in 1 Act. By T. J. Williams. 4 male, 2 female char.
46. MARY MOO; or, Which shall I Marry? A Farce in 1 Act. By W. E. Suter. 2 male, 1 female char.
47. EAST LYNNE. A Drama in 5 Acts. 8 male, 7 female char.
48. THE HIDDEN HAND. A Drama in 5 Acts. By Robert Jones. 16 male, 7 female char.
49. SILVERSTONE’S WAGER. A Commedietta in 1 Act. By R. R. Andrews. 4 male, 3 female char.
50. DORA. A Pastoral Drama in 3 Acts. By Chas. Reade. 5 male, 2 female char.
55. THE WIFE’S SECRET. A Play in 5 Acts. By Geo. W. Lovell. 10 male, 2 female char.
56. THE BABES IN THE WOOD. A Comedy in 3 Acts. By Tom Taylor. 10 male, 3 female char.
57. PUTKINS; Heir to Castles in the Air. A Comic Drama in 1 Act. By W. R. Emerson. 2 male, 2 female char.
58. AN UGLY CUSTOMER. A Farce in 1 Act. By Thomas J. Williams. 3 male, 2 female char.
59. BLUE AND CHERRY. A Comedy in 1 Act. 3 male, 2 female char.
60. A DOUBTFUL VICTORY. A Comedy in 1 Act. 3 male, 2 female char.
61. THE SCARLET LETTER. A Drama in 3 Acts. 8 male, 7 female char.
62. WHICH WILL HAVE HIM? A Vaudeville. 1 male, 2 female char.
63. MADAM IS ABED. A Vaudeville in 1 Act. 2 male, 2 female char.
64. THE ANONYMOUS KISS. A Vaudeville. 2 male, 2 female char.
65. THE CLEFT STICK. A Comedy in 3 Acts. 5 male, 3 female char.
66. A SOLDIER, A SAILOR, A TINKER, AND A TAILOR. A Farce in 1 Act. 4 male, 2 female char.
67. GIVE A DOG A BAD NAME. A Farce. 2 male, 2 female char.
68. DAMON AND PYTHIAS. A Farce. 6 male, 4 female char.
69. A HUSBAND TO ORDER. A Serio-comic Drama in 2 Acts. 5 male, 3 female char.
70. PAYABLE ON DEMAND. A Domestic Drama in 2 Acts. 7 male, 1 female char.
_Descriptive Catalogue mailed free on application to_
Geo. M. Baker & Co., 47 Franklin St., Boston.
POISON.
A Farce.
AS PERFORMED
BY “THE HASTY PUDDING CLUB”
OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY.
BOSTON:
GEORGE M. BAKER AND COMPANY.
1882.
Copyright, 1882,
BY GEORGE M. BAKER.
_All Rights Reserved._
POISON.
_A FARCE._
AS ACTED AT THE HASTY PUDDING CLUB, HARVARD COLLEGE, DEC. 20TH, 1881.
CHARACTERS:
MR. THEOPHILUS TWITTERS, _a retired sugar merchant_ E. J. WENDELL.
GOTTLIEB HUNKER, _honorary secretary of the society for the prevention of capital_ J. E. WEBB.
DR. CHARLES SQUILLCOX, _an apothecary in love with Clara_ F. C. WOODBURY.
CLARA TWITTERS H. C. FRENCH.
THE MOTHER OF THE LATE MRS. TWITTERS A. MATTHEWS.
MARY JANE R. T. BABSON.
OFFICER OF THE LAW H. M. HUBBARD.
SCENE.--_Breakfast-room of the suburban villa of Mr. Twitters. The mother of the late Mrs. Twitters and Mary Jane are discovered._
MARY JANE. But I tell you this is Mr. Twitters’ breakfast, mum. There’s no telling what he’ll do if he don’t catch the train this morning. He’s ordered the horse ready since seven o’clock.
MOTHER (_breaking an egg_). In the midst of life we are in death. I have left my humble lodgings this morning to attend the interment of the remains of our late pastor, the Rev. Dr. Elijah Paddy----a hot muffin, Mary Jane!
MARY JANE. What will master say, mum? There won’t be no breakfast left. He has the alarm-clock set in his hat-bath to wake him at seven, and it made such a noise, mum, that he flung it out the window and went to sleep again. And he’s been rampaging round and ordering breakfast on the table for the last hour.
MOTHER. The carriage will serve me in my sad errand. I have a floral tribute in this box to place upon the grave of the dear departed,----a little more hot toast, Mary Jane,----an anchor, expressive of hope and Christian resignation. It will be but a trifle among the many offerings. The Rev. Mr. Paddy never knew how many friends he had until he was dead (_breaking another egg_).
MARY JANE. You’re eating the last egg, mum.
MOTHER. I grieve that there is no other egg, but this will suffice to support me through the trying ceremony. He was an eminent Christian,--he had three wives. (_Bell rings._)
TWITTERS (_without, calling_). Has that thundering shoemaker sent my new boots?
MARY JANE (_calling at door_). Just come, sir.
MOTHER. Cease this unseemly noise, girl (_rising_), summon the equipage.
MARY JANE. The equipage, mum? I didn’t see you come in no carriage.
MOTHER. My limited earthly resources do not permit me to provide myself with such luxuries. I shall use one of your master’s. My poor, dear, departed daughter, did not survive to enjoy his prosperity. I do.
MARY JANE. But he wants the carriage to go to the train, mum.
MOTHER. Trains go hourly. (_Takes up a box. Exit._)
MARY JANE (_standing at window_). Well, if the late Mrs. Twitters was like this mother of hers, it ain’t no wonder that master’s kind of fidgety like. There,--she’s got hold of John, now, and she’s stepping into the carriage that was going to take master to the train. And she’s druv off! Oh, deary me. What vicious things elderly women can be. (_Enter Twitters hastily._)
TWITTERS (_Looking at watch_). I shall have a close shave for the 9-20 train, but I think I can manage it. Breakfast’s ready of course, of course?
MARY JANE. It _was_ ready sir.
TWITTERS (_approaching table_). Why, what on earth does this mean?
MARY JANE. The mother of the late Mrs. Twitters--
TWITTERS. The devil!
MARY JANE. No, sir, the mother of--
TWITTERS. Is she here? (_With feeling._)
MARY JANE. No, sir, she’s gone.
TWITTERS. Something ghoulish is going on somewhere, then, or she would have stayed. That women is a perfect vulture. If anything horrible happens to anybody, she comes pouncing down to gloat over it. I’m becoming a fiend, myself; I rejoice in the news of any misfortune, for it means temporary deliverance for me from her--has she eaten everything?
MARY JANE. All there was, sir.
TWITTERS. How soon can you get some more?
MARY JANE. It’ll be ten minutes, sir.
TWITTERS. I shall have to breakfast in town, then. I must be off. John’s here, of course?
MARY JANE. No, sir, he’s took.
TWITTERS. Good heavens! A fit?
MARY JANE. No, sir; the mother of the late Mrs. Twitters.
TWITTERS. Where has she taken him?
MARY JANE. To the funeral obelisk of an Irish gentleman, sir.
TWITTERS. To Parson Paddy’s funeral?
MARY JANE. That’s just it, sir.
TWITTERS. I hated that man, but his death caused me deep sorrow. Her cap was set at him. I must run for the train. Where are my boots? Ah, here! (_Opening a box and producing a funeral wreath_) what in the name of nature is this?
MARY JANE. It’s her’s, sir; she’s been and gone and took the boots to the burying, and she’s left nothing behind but Christian resignation.
TWITTERS. Damn Christian resignation. (_Pitches box across stage; a letter falls out; he picks it up and opens it during speech._) Call Miss Clara and tell her I’ll breakfast with her. I can’t get to town till eleven, now. And get something uncommonly good to eat, mind you. A bad temper needs good food.
MARY JANE. Yes, sir; I noticed, sir, how the old lady had a fine appetite.
TWITTERS (_severely_). Speak civilly of members of my family, if you expect to keep your place. (_Glancing at paper, which he has taken from envelope._) Why, the damned old harridan.
MARY JANE. Yes, sir. (_Exit._)
TWITTERS (_reading_). “Theophilus Twitters, Esq., to Grimsby & Weeper, florists. Funeral orders attended with despatch in the latest and tastiest styles. To one Christian resignation, roses, immortelles, etc., $15. A prompt payment is requested.” Then in pencil: “For the sake of our departed Sarah you will please meet this little account.” This is the last straw. I’m a strong camel but my back breaks at this. I’ll give orders that she shan’t be let into the house. And as for this bill, here goes (_goes to table and writes_): “Grimsby & Weeper; sirs: I won’t pay this rascally, swindling bill, or any other. T. Twitters.” (_Rings bell, then sealing letter._) That will settle Christian resignation, I reckon. (_Enter_ CHARLES.)
CHARLES (_standing in door with handful of letters, timidly_). Mr. T-Twitters--
TWITTERS (_not looking up_). Come here.
CHARLES (_approaching timidly_). Yes, Mr. T-Twitters.
TWITTERS. Take this to the post and look sharp.
CHARLES. But I’ve just come from the post, sir.
TWITTERS. What’s that to me? (_Looking up._) Dear me, Charles, I thought you were my man. Seen the paper?
CHARLES. I’ve brought it in, sir.
TWITTERS (_seizing it_). How’s Harshaw this morning?
CHARLES. Why, I never thought of looking, sir. If it had occurred to me that you’d have liked to know--
TWITTERS. 38 7-8! Three per cent. rise! I’m six thousand in pocket! (_With a sigh._) You’re a lucky dog, Charles; you don’t tremble whenever you look at a stock-list.
CHARLES. No, sir; I don’t seem to look at one, often. (_Nervous._) You’re surprised to see me at this hour, I suppose?
TWITTERS. Hadn’t been--but now you mention it, I am.
CHARLES. You see, I happened in at the post-office, and I saw your mail, and I thought that you might like to have me leave it at your house on my way home.
TWITTERS (_laughing_). You’re a sly dog, Charles. What time do I go to town?
CHARLES. Why, 9-20 I ’spose, sir.
TWITTERS (_pointing to watch_). At this moment it’s 9-25, you young rascal, and you have the impudence to say that you came to see me. (_Enter_ MARY JANE.)
MARY JANE. Did you ring, sir?
TWITTERS. Yes. Take this letter to the post, and look sharp (_handing letter which he has written_); and, I say, tell Miss Clara that there’s a gentleman here that wants to see her. (_Exit_ MARY JANE.)
CHARLES. Here are your letters, Mr. Twitters. I assure you--
TWITTERS. I like your little game, Charles, I like it. Perhaps Clara’ll like it, too, you young Machiavelli. Now don’t pretend you didn’t come to see her. Six thousand in, by Jove. I must sell out Harshaw as soon as I get to town. Bottom’s sure to fall out of it. (_Enter_ CLARA _with watering pot_.)
CLARA. Good morning, papa dear, (_kisses him._) Why, Dr. Squillcox, are you here?
TWITTERS. As if you didn’t expect him.
CLARA. How can you say such things, papa?
CHARLES. Yes, Mr. Twitters, it’s most unjust--
CLARA. If I had expected anybody, should I have brought in this great, heavy watering-pot?
CHARLES. Can’t I hold it Miss Clara? (_takes it._)
CLARA. I was going to water my flowers in the garden.
TWITTERS. Go along, my dear: and go along with her, you rascal. (_Laughs. Exeunt_ CHARLES _and_ CLARA _laughing_.)
TWITTERS (_rubbing his hands_). There they go. It does my heart good to think that my little Clara has such a good fellow to look after her; and that I can act as the ways and means committee. I’ll take care that their love shan’t fly out of the window. (_Opens letter._) Here’s the plumber’s bill. Old Faucet will be rolling in his carriage soon. If Charles gets tired of medicine I’ll set him up as a plumber. (_Opens another letter._) Clara’s milliner’s bill. Egad! how Charles’ eyes would open, if they tried love in a cottage on his professional outcome. Hollo! What’s this? Shabby looking letter addressed in a shabby hand. Another bill, I suppose. No. What’s this? (_Reads._) “Theophilus Twitters, Bloated Bond-holder. I am a foe to capital and the Grand-master of a secret society organized to cripple said capital, to muzzle monopolists, and to elevate the horny-handed son of toil.” You have a good-sized contract, my friend. “When the copartnership of Tollgate & Twitters engaged in their corner in sugar, and robbed the poor of the luxuries of a free breakfast-table, our society determined to foil you. As their agent, I secretly entered the warehouse in which your hoard of sugar was stored, and secreted in various spots amidst the innocent condiment no less than twelve pounds of arsenic. After having done this, I notified your partner, the aforesaid diabolical Tollgate, of my action, and apprised him that all the sugar must be destroyed,--else poison would be thrown broadcast upon the world. You, as his partner, are affected with notice of this. (As a foe to capital, I have incidentally been trained as a lawyer.) The aforesaid diabolical Tollgate, with your connivance,”--Damn law words. I hate ’em--“With your connivance sold the sugar. Through secret channels the deadly grains of arsenic are distilled into the veins of society. The blushing damsel, receiving taffy from her lover, curls up and dies. The fond mother, pouring out her children’s cambric tea, gives them the black wine of death. Candy-shops are charnel-houses! Society gatherings are volcanos! Ice-cream leads to the grave! And all through you, most miserable of mortals, who lie soft and count your ill-gotten wealth.” (_Enter_ MARY JANE _with coffee. He starts to drink_.) “But even you are not exempt from the insidious enemy. The very cup of coffee that you may now be raising to your lips may call you to judgment.” (_Drops coffee cup._) What sinful nonsense. I shouldn’t give it a thought if it didn’t charge my poor dead partner with such villany. And Tollgate was a Sunday-school superintendent. (_Enter_ MARY JANE _with breakfast_.)
MARY JANE. The letter’s mailed, sir.
TWITTERS. Letter? What do you know about the letter?
MARY JANE. Sure, you gave it to me, sir.
TWITTERS. No such thing. Ah, to be sure! How absurd to be so discomposed. So breakfast’s ready?
MARY JANE (_arranging table_). Yes, sir.
TWITTERS (_after a short pause, during which he has fidgeted_). By the way, Mary Jane, you haven’t happened to hear much illness about of late. Have you?
MARY JANE. Why, sir, there has been folks go off sudden.
TWITTERS. You don’t say so? Who?
MARY JANE. Well, sir; there was poor Mr. Tollgate.
TWITTERS. Apoplexy--apoplexy, beyond all doubt. Caused by the success of our corner.
MARY JANE. Then, sir, there was my grandmother, only last week, sir.
TWITTERS. Yes, I remember. But I’ve remarked that that melancholy event has happened twenty-seven times in the course of the year. I infer that your grandfather was a Mormon.
MARY JANE. Which I consider that remark most unfeeling, sir. And what with waiting on the mother of the late Mrs. Twitters, sir, and getting two breakfasts for you, and having my own grandfather abused, sir, I cannot submit to it, sir.
TWITTERS. Leave the room, girl.
MARY JANE. Which I shall take pleasure in leaving, sir, this day week, sir. (_Exit._)
TWITTERS (_playing with breakfast things_). All right. It’s absurd to think of this matter. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred an anonymous letter is a lie, but if this should turn out to be the hundredth I should be a Borgia. Heavens. What a situation. Why, even my poor daughter would be blighted. I could never permit her to marry and to perpetuate a crime-stained race. I wonder what the effect of arsenic is. Happy thought. I’ll look it up in my encyclopædia. Glad to put the thing to some use. (_Takes down the volume._) A-r-t--a-r-s-e-n-i-c. That’s it. (_Reads._) “Arsenic is one of the most violent of the acrid poisons. Its use in medicine and toxicological properties are treated under medical jurisprudence.” Damn it. Just my luck. (_Looks at bookcase again._) My set stops at “Lam.” Pooh! Pooh! Why, even if the whole thing were true, twelve pounds. (_Looks at letter._) Yes, he says twelve pounds--in a whole warehouse full of sugar wouldn’t do more than improve the complexion of the public. I should be a benefactor. (_Enter Charles and Clara._)
CLARA. Is breakfast all ready, papa, dear? I’m dreadfully hungry.
TWITTERS. Quite ready, dear.
CHARLES. Where shall I put this? It’s very heavy.
TWITTERS. Heavy?
CHARLES. Yes, you see it is quite full of water. I’m afraid of wetting the carpet, you see.
CLARA. Why! Sure enough! We forgot to water the flowers!
TWITTERS. Forgot it, eh? Young people have queer memories, nowadays. Put that confounded thing in the hall, Charles. You are a medical man. How do you account for the curious prevalence of sudden death?
CHARLES (_returning from hall door_). Why, I haven’t thought much about it.
TWITTERS. The newspapers talk about arsenic in wall papers. Nonsense, don’t you think so?
CHARLES (_soaring to professional fluency_). Not a bit of it. Arsenic is the most deadly of drugs.
TWITTERS. Oh, you don’t say so?
CLARA. What a disagreeable subject! Come to breakfast, papa dear. (_At table._)
TWITTERS. Stop, Clara, we are not ready for food; I am interested in this matter. How deadly is arsenic--how much would kill?
CHARLES. Well, in wall-papers it’s one thing; in the stomach, it is another.
TWITTERS. Take stomachs. I’m interested.
CHARLES. It’s only common prudence to have your wall-paper tested (_looking at paper_); I don’t like that green.
TWITTERS. Confound it, sir; I’m talking about stomachs.
CLARA. Papa dear, aren’t you ready?
TWITTERS. Don’t interrupt us. Charles--how much arsenic will kill?
CHARLES. A deadly dose for an adult is five grains.
TWITTERS. How do you weigh it? How many grains to the pound?
CHARLES. Twenty grains make a scruple--there are three scruples in a dram--that’s sixty grains--in an ounce there are eight drams--that makes four hundred and eighty--and in a pound there are twelve ounces--twelve times four hundred and eighty are five thousand seven hundred and sixty.
TWITTERS. Then a pound will kill--?
CHARLES. Five into five once--into seven, once and two over--into twenty-six, five times and one over--and into ten twice. A pound would kill about eleven hundred and fifty-two able-bodied men.
TWITTERS (_to himself_). Twelve times eleven hundred and--good heavens. (_Sinks into chair._)
CLARA. Charles is going to breakfast with us, papa dear.
TWITTERS. Charles! What do you mean by speaking of Dr. Squillcox by his Christian name?
CLARA. Why--_you_ do, papa dear.
TWITTERS. Yes; but I’m not a marriageable young woman.
CLARA (_to Charles_). You had better speak, dear.
CHARLES. Mr. Twitters--the fact is--
CLARA. Yes, papa; the fact is--
TWITTERS. The fact is, young man, that you have come here before cock-crow, pretending to bring the mail to me--gauzy pretext--
CHARLES. I assure you, Mr. Twitters, I did nothing of the sort.
CLARA. By no means, papa dear. He came to see me; and he is going to ask you--
TWITTERS. I see what he’s at. I consider your behavior surreptitious, sir. What have you to recommend you?
CLARA. He has my love, papa dear. That’s all _you_ have but a little money. Now be a dear, good, sweet papa.
TWITTERS. Sweet! Oh--42,000 grains--I have your love, then?
CLARA. Why, yes, papa.
TWITTERS. Very good. I don’t choose to share it. Your conduct is little better than robbery, sir. You ought to blush redder than the bottles that conceal the poverty of your stock in trade.
CHARLES. My calling is respectable, sir.
TWITTERS. Then follow its example in your conduct, sir.
CHARLES. I shall, sir. (_Going._)
CLARA. Charles, are you going away?
CHARLES. Naturally.
TWITTERS. And naturally, sir, you won’t expect to return?
CHARLES. Naturally not, sir. (_Exit._)
TWITTERS (_aside_). There he goes; worthy young fellow. But while this arsenic is hanging over my head there must be no thought of love or marriage in this fated home. Clara, dear, don’t let this trouble you.