Part 2

CLARA. O, papa, I don’t know which of you troubles me most. You are so harsh and Charles was so--so--

TWITTERS. Pusillanimous, Clara. A single rebuff was enough for him.

CLARA (_crying_). O, dear! O, dear!

TWITTERS (_patting her shoulder_). There, dear, there! Remember, as long as I live you have some one to love you.

CLARA. But it isn’t the same thing.

TWITTERS. No, the honest love of a father is lasting--come to breakfast.

CLARA (_going to table sobbing_). T-two lumps in your coffee, papa?

TWITTERS (_with emphasis_). Great Heavens! No! (_Recovering himself._) That has been my usual dose.

CLARA. Dose! (_Sobbing again._) O dear! Poor Charles!

TWITTERS (_aside_). A deadly dose for an adult is five grains--twelve times eleven hundred and fifty-two--enough to kill twenty-five thousand women and children. The board of water commissioners are a choir of white-robed angels beside my partner if this is true. Why will you put so much sugar in your coffee, dear? You make it a perfect liqueur!

CLARA. I always had a sweet tooth.

TWITTERS. A sweet tooth leads through a heap of dentist’s bills to a set of false ones. I can’t have you eating these horrid sweet things, candies, sweet-meats, ices, and jams. Your dentist’s bills ruin--(_he has pulled her coffee cup towards him, and put salt into it_).

CLARA. What are you doing with my coffee, papa?

TWITTERS. Putting salt in it; it’s not coffee that hurts you, it’s the mixture of coffee and sugar. I read somewhere that coffee and sugar together make leather.

CLARA. No, papa; tea and milk.

TWITTERS. Coffee and sugar! (_Aside._) Of course the letter’s a hoax. It doesn’t disconcert me. But to think of my partner having a monument detailing his Christian virtues! He always passed the contribution box, and, now I think of it, he used to have a great deal of loose change of a Monday. Read me the paper, dear.

CLARA. I don’t like reading aloud. The newspapers are so full of politics and murders and business and accidents.

TWITTERS. I regard the daily paper as a necessary part of every young girl’s education. Here it is.

CLARA (_reading_). “Double hanging in Atlanta! Pernicious poisoning. A diabolical crime.”

TWITTERS (_starting_). Eh!

CLARA (_reading_). “A man poisoned by lemonade administered by his wife. The post-mortem reveals distinct traces of arsenic in the stomach.”

TWITTERS. Clara! Where was it?

CLARA. O, in Kalamazoo, or some such horrid western place.

TWITTERS. Kalamazoo! Great heavens!

CLARA. How can a horrid man in Kalamazoo concern us?

TWITTERS. In no way my dear. (_Aside._) I must dissemble--go on.

CLARA (_reading_). “The unfortunate couple were well known in the highest social circles. The married life of the twain had been unmarred by a cloud. It seems most strange that a train of circumstantial evidence is wound around the unhappy wife, which points”--(_stops_). Papa, dear, how can a chain point.

TWITTERS. Continue your reading, flippant girl.

CLARA (_reading_). “Which points at her as the murderess. It seems that, with a noteworthy economy, she alone of the household had access to the sugar barrel.” (_Turns and refolds paper._)

TWITTERS (_aside_). The sugar barrel! In far-off Kalamazoo! That letter bears the stamp of truth.

CLARA (_having folded paper, reads_). “The lemonade was prepared with her own hands. Traces of arsenic were found in the glass from which the victim drank his last drink; and in the barrel of sugar, which had but just arrived from the highly respectable store of Spicer & Co., not less than half an ounce has already been discovered--” What stupid stuff! Why, papa! What is the matter?

TWITTERS (_with his head on his hands, in agony_). Nothing, my dear nothing. It is so terrible to think of all that suffering (_Enter Hunker_).

HUNKER. Mr. Twitters, I believe.

TWITTERS. Yes, what do you want? (_Seizing and pocketing paper._)

HUNKER. Your servant was not disposed to introduce me, so I take the liberty of introducing myself.

TWITTERS. I’m not well this morning, sir.

HUNKER (_sitting down._) Naturally enough. The morning news doesn’t agree with you, I presume.

TWITTERS (_nervous_). I don’t understand you.

HUNKER. I have a little business with you--rather private nature. You might prefer to have our young friend here leave the room.

CLARA (_rising with dignity_). I am going, papa.

HUNKER. Good day--Miss Twitters, I reckon--pleased to have met you. Hope to see more of you. (_Exit_ CLARA.)

TWITTERS. And now, sir, who are you?

HUNKER. “A foe to capital, and the grand master of a society organized to cripple said capital, muzzle monopolists and elevate the horny-handed son of toil”--at your service, sir.

TWITTERS. Ah, you wrote me a letter this morning?

HUNKER. I did.

TWITTERS. The writers of anonymous letters are dealt with according to the law.

HUNKER. So are venders of poisoned food.

TWITTERS. I don’t believe a word of your story.

HUNKER (_calmly and deliberately producing papers, which he turns over_). I have proofs that arsenic was in the sugar, that the sugar was sold by the copartnership of Tollgate & Twitters, that one if not both of said firm knew of this rather unpleasant adulteration. (_Twitters grabs at papers._) Don’t lose your self-control, Twitters, I never do. There are copies.

TWITTERS. Granting your proofs, then,--supposing the whole thing true, you, the poisoner, will suffer more than I, the victim.

HUNKER (_calmly_). I shall turn State’s evidence.

TWITTERS (_sinking back in chair_). Good heavens!

HUNKER. See here, Twitters. I’m a fair minded man. In practically maintaining sound economic principles, I’ve concocted a scrape. We’re both in it. We must back each other up.

TWITTERS. What do you want me to do?

HUNKER. Well, I ain’t comfortable.

TWITTERS. Neither am I.

HUNKER. Naturally; you don’t like the prospect of hanging, and I don’t like the prospect of continuing to breakfast from early morning milk-cans, and to bone newspapers to keep me in tobacco. Now, you make me comfortable and I’ll guarantee you shan’t swing.

TWITTERS. Well, well, how much do you want?

HUNKER. I aint mean in money matters. Let’s see--By Jove, Twitters, I like the looks of this box of yours. I’ll make you a visit.

TWITTERS. I’m not joking, sir.

HUNKER. No more am I,--I have proofs; first, that arsenic was in the sugar; second--

TWITTERS. I must yield.

HUNKER. All right, Twitters. You’re more intelligent than you look.

TWITTERS. I have a good back room.

HUNKER. I prefer a front one.

TWITTERS. The front one is mine.

HUNKER. Sorry to inconvenience you, I’m sure, but I can’t put up with a back one.

TWITTERS (_aside_). Crimes do come home to roost with a vengeance! (_Aloud._) Where is your trunk?

HUNKER. Would you believe it, Twitters, I’ve shoved up every thundering rag that ain’t on my back. I’ll borrow of you.

TWITTERS. This passes patience.

HUNKER. It’s hard to bear; but your clothes are good, if they aint handsome. I aint proud. But proud or not, I want a bath. If you’ll believe it, Twitters, I’ve not bathed since--but we won’t be unpleasant and vulgar, will we?

TWITTERS. The servant will show you to the bath-room.

HUNKER. You’d better do it yourself, Twitters; I don’t like to lose sight of you--not that you’re so awful handsome to look at, but--you twig? Thanks, I’ll sample your strong waters (_pouring brandy from decanter to goblet and drinking_). Where’s the bath-room?

TWITTERS. This way.

HUNKER. All right. Now you treat me fair, and I’ll treat you fair. (_Smacking his lips._) I’m square. That’s prime tipple. (_Exeunt._)

CHARLES (_appearing at window_). Nobody’s here. I must see Clara! (_Door opens._) I wouldn’t be seen. Twitters is capable of setting dogs on me. (_Dodges down. Enter_ CLARA.)

CLARA. Papa! Is that horrid man gone? Papa?

CHARLES (_appearing again_). Hush!

CLARA (_starting and turning_). Oh!--It’s you, and crawling through the window. Dr. Squillcox.

CHARLES. “Dr. Squillcox.” O, Clara--come here.

CLARA (_approaching window_). I hate you. If you had really loved me you would have shown more courage with papa.

CHARLES. It was insane of me to ask a man for his daughter’s hand before he had eaten his breakfast. (_Takes her hand._) But it’s all serene, little girl. I’ll make it well. (_Kisses her._)

CLARA. It doesn’t make it well at all.

CHARLES. I have such an immense plan. You must be taken very ill, this afternoon. Your father will forget his dyspepsia in worrying over you. All remedies they give you must fail. Old Dr. Parkinson is away, and--

CLARA (_clapping her hands_). And papa will have to send for you. At your first powder--you mustn’t give me pills--I can’t take them--I’ll get well immediately.

CHARLES. And your papa, delighted at my skill, will give your hand to your preserver.

CLARA. How clever you are, Charles! (_Noise without._) Go away. Somebody’s coming. (_Charles disappears._)

(_Enter_ TWITTERS.)

TWITTERS (_advancing thoughtfully, aside_). I wonder if the brand of Cain is perceptible upon my brow. To think that I should be the cause of all this suffering! That no day may pass without a death which proper investigation might lay at my door! That all my life must be passed with this terrible man. I cannot endure it! (_Sits down._)

CLARA (_approaching him_). Why, papa, you look ill.

TWITTERS. Ill! Yes, this is a wicked world, Clara. I meant to strew your path with roses, to hide from you the villainy--

HUNKER (_without, shouting_). Towels, Twitters.

CLARA. O, dear! What is that?

TWITTERS (_rising_). It is the voice of fate. (_Calling._) Coming, sir.

CLARA. What _do_ you mean?

HUNKER (_without_). Found ’em! No matter!

TWITTERS. A gentleman is come to stay with me, dear; and while he is here, we shall have so much business together that I have been thinking that it might be well for you to visit your kind grandmother.

CLARA. But I don’t want to. Grandma has horrid things to eat. Who is this gentleman?

TWITTERS. You saw him here, this morning.

CLARA. That horrid, dirty man!

TWITTERS. An old friend of my boyhood, Clara--a worthy man, whom the world has dog’s-eared by hard usage. I am superior to prejudice, but I cannot expect you to be.

CLARA. I should hope not.

TWITTERS. So you had better go at once, dear. I’ll send your things. He is rough, I know, but he has a gentle, kind heart--

HUNKER (_without_). I say, Twitters! Where are you? Damn you!

TWITTERS (_calling_). Here, sir. (_To Clara._) Go away, dear, quickly.

(_Clara goes toward door. As she reaches it, Hunker appears and meets her, face to face. He is showily dressed in clothes of Twitters’, somewhat too small_.)

HUNKER (_bowing_). Much obliged, miss; you were coming to show me the way, I ’spose. I’ve found it, you see. I heard your lovely voice.

TWITTERS. My daughter was going out, Mr. Hunker.

HUNKER. I guess she’d better not. It ain’t a nice day out.

CLARA. I beg your pardon, sir.

HUNKER. Twitters, this young woman mustn’t go out. Do you twig?

CLARA. Good-bye, papa.

TWITTERS. You had better stay, dear. (_Clara stops, amazed._)

HUNKER. So I think. (_Drawing long breath._) I feel like a new man, and I’m going to give the new man a drink. (_Pouring out brandy again._) What’s her name, Twitters?

TWITTERS. My daughter is named Clara, sir.

HUNKER. Lovely name. Here’s to Clara (_drinking_). Sit down; we’ll soon be pals.

TWITTERS. Sit down, dear. (_Clara sits amazed._)

HUNKER. Two young people like us can’t be thrown together in a house without liking each other pretty well?

CLARA (_to Twitters_). I cannot submit to this, papa.

TWITTERS (_to Clara_). We should never take offence when none is meant, dear.

HUNKER. I’m an adventurous cuss, Miss Clara--just on from Arizona to float a gold mine on the eastern market. Going to let Twitters in at bed-rock prices--eh, Twitters?

TWITTERS. Yes, yes, of course.

HUNKER. We had hard old sledding on the plains, at times, Miss Clara.

CLARA. Indeed, sir!

HUNKER. Chased by Indians twenty miles, riding with Custer--you know Custer? Seventeen of them miles I had a bullet in my leg (_starting to pull up his trouser leg_)--want to see the scar?

CLARA (_with terror_). No! No!

HUNKER (_pleased with himself_). O, we’re kindred spirits; we’ll soon be friends. I like your New England country. As Lady Franklin said to me, when we was taking supper together on the Oregon steamer. She was goin’ to hunt up John’s bones in Sitka, where I kept a hotel--“Beans is a benevolent institution, Mr. Hunker,” says she. “You’re right, Lady F.,” says I. Now speak up, if you’re talked to death, Miss Clara.

CLARA. I have nothing to say.

HUNKER. All right. I can talk right along,--keep it up forever. By George, it would be funny if you and I should conclude to keep it up forever--eh, Clara?

CLARA. I don’t understand this man, papa.

TWITTERS. He is a rough diamond, dear.

CLARA. Then he ought to be “cut.”

HUNKER. Why, make a match of it.

CLARA (_aside_). O dear. I shall be ill, really. I must send for Charles. (_Aloud._) Papa, I don’t feel well.

TWITTERS (_starting_). Eh, my dear! What’s the matter?

CLARA. I have a head-ache.--

HUNKER. Have you been eating sugar?

TWITTERS (_agonized_). I fear so.

HUNKER. Does your throat burn?

CLARA (_faintly_). Yes, yes, I want to lie down (_they lead her to sofa_).

HUNKER. My God! It’s the symptoms--see what you’ve done!

TWITTERS. I, you miserable man! Behold your work!

HUNKER. No time for fooling, Twitters. I know the antidote. I’ll run to the nearest apothecary--it’s too bad, I vow! Here, give me sixty cents. (_Exit._)

TWITTERS. There you are, my poor child! (_Gets towel, which he wets with cologne and puts to her head._) Does that help you?

CLARA. O papa. It doesn’t make me any better! Send for the doctor!

TWITTERS. Yes, yes. (_Aside._) If the doctor should discover poisoning! If it should be traced to me!

CLARA (_faintly_). Dr. Squillcox--the other one’s away.

MOTHER (_without_). Where is Twitters? I _will_ see him. (_Enter Mother._)

MOTHER. You are here--I entered the hushed chamber where all that was mortal of the sainted Elijah Paddy was lying--

TWITTERS. Don’t talk of death.

MOTHER. Overcome by emotion, I averted my head, and blindly removing the brown paper wrapping, I placed upon the heart of the departed what I thought to be a floral tribute--a lovely anchor, expressive of hope and christian resignation--

TWITTERS. Can’t you see that poor Clara is ill? Be still, woman.

MOTHER. Who insults me by calling me woman? I stood with averted face. A stir of excitement thrilled the hushed and weeping assembly as my offering was seen. Touched by this appreciation of my tribute, I turned to take a last view of all that was earthly of the departed--there, amid a heap of roses and camellias lay those odious _boots_. (_Pulling them from under her cloak, holding them at arm’s length and throwing them down._) Without a word I fled. I am undone forever.

TWITTERS. Say no more of boots. Look at my suffering child and hold your peace.

MOTHER. I need no word from you to succor my departed Sarah’s child (_walking towards the couch. She snatches at_ TWITTERS’ _hand_). Your allopathic doses are killing her (_producing phial_). These pellets will cure her (_starts to give_ CLARA _pills_).

TWITTERS. No sugar pills! For heaven’s sake, no sugar!

MOTHER (_severely_). These are rendered efficacious by an infinitesimal reduction of arsenic.

TWITTERS (_in agony_). Give them to me. (_Struggling with her._)

MOTHER. Prejudiced monster. Like cures like. (_They struggle for the phial. Twitters wrenches it away and flings it into the fire-place. Mother stands panting with rage._)

(_Enter an Officer of the Law._)

OFFICER. Theophilus Twitters?

TWITTERS (_excited_). Yes, what is it?

OFFICER. I arrest you, in the name of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

TWITTERS (_agonized_). The blow is fallen!

MOTHER (_between horror and joy_). O that I should have lived to see this day! (_Crossing to_ CLARA.) My poor child, your mother’s mother will care for you, while your sinful parent expiates his crimes!

CLARA (_aside_). Why doesn’t Charles come?

TWITTERS (_imploring_). Officer, a few moments with my suffering child.

OFFICER. Couldn’t think of it. Get your hat.

(_Enter_ HUNKER, _hastily, followed by_ CHARLES).

HUNKER (_recognizing_ OFFICER, _aside_). Thunder. There’s a copp. (_Aloud, with tremor._) What’s wanted?

OFFICER (_sententiously_). Twitters.

CHARLES (_coming forward_). And this man, too--

HUNKER (_imploring_). Shut up! I’ll fix things!

$1eks ago he came to me and offered me a large sum for twelve pounds of arsenic--to kill rats, he said, but--

$1s risen in her excitement_). But, what?

$1ing with excitement_). But what, Charles?

$1 he might not go elsewhere--for I saw that his end was crime--I sold him _powdered sugar_!

$1 sugar! A mountain has rolled off my breast! You’re an angel, Charles!

$1d_). _You’re a damned mean apothecary!_

$1 you don’t want me now?

$1see how all this makes any difference in the suit of Grimsby _et al._ _v._ Twitters,--criminal libel.

TWITTERS. Grimsby & Weeper!

OFFICER. Them’s the people. You called them rascally swindlers.

MOTHER. The makers of my tribute.

TWITTERS. They didn’t like my letter?

OFFICER. That’s so. But you’re a stampy old duffer. This gentleman (_pointing to_ CHARLES) will go surety on your bond?

HUNKER. Good day, gents and ladies (_starts to go. To_ CLARA). Now our match is off, you’ve got well putty quick. Good day.

OFFICER. See here (_touching his shoulder_).

HUNKER. I aint libelled nobody.

OFFICER. Dry up! Come along with me. I want your phiz in the rogues’ gallery.

HUNKER (_putting hat on one side_). I guess I can screw it up so as you won’t know it again. I say, Twitters, I’ve made a suit of clothes out of this, anyhow. (_Exeunt._)

TWITTERS (_to_ CLARA). Ah, you sly puss! Charles was the medicine you needed! Here, Charles, she’s your’s and half my fortune with her. Thank heaven, I’m not a blear-eyed Borgia, chumming with a prison-bird.

CLARA. I don’t understand you, papa.

TWITTERS. No reason you should, my dear. Everything is bright and happy, excepting that I shall lose my little girl and be left all alone.

MOTHER (_embracing him_). I will take her place, Theophilus. The past shall be forgotten. I will never desert the lonely husband of my departed Sarah.

TWITTERS (_shaking her off. To himself_). I shall have to send for Hunker.

_Curtain._

* * * * *

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The Red Jacket _George M. Baker._ Old Age Mahmoud _Leigh Hunt._ The Closet Scene from “Hamlet” How he saved St. Michael’s _Aldine._ Samson The Story of the Bad Little Boy who didn’t come to Grief _Mark Twain._ Mr. Caudle and his Second Wife _Douglas Jerrold’s Fireside Saints._ Tauler _Whittier._ The Doorstep _E. C. Stedman._ Old Farmer Gray gets photographed _John H. Yates._ Mr. O’Gallagher’s Three Roads to Learning _Capt. Marryat._ The Jester’s Sermon _Walter Thornbury._ “The Boofer Lady” _Dickens’s “Mutual Friend.”_ Defiance of Harold the Dauntless _Scott._ Battle Hymn _Körner._ The Story of the Faithful Soul _Adelaide Procter._ “Curfew must not ring To-Night” _Rosa Hartwick Thorpe._ The Showman’s Courtship _Artemus Ward._ How Terry saved his Bacon The Senator’s Pledge _Charles Sumner._ Overthrow of Belshazzar _Barry Cornwall._ The Hour of Prayer _Mrs. Hemans._ The Squire’s Story _John Phœnix._ The Happiest Couple _Sheridan._ Godiva _Tennyson._ Farmer Bent’s Sheep-Washing The Deutsch Maud Muller _Carl Pretzel._ Charles Sumner _Carl Schurz._ The Bricklayers _G. H. Barnes._ A Stranger in the Pew _Harper’s Mag._ The Mistletoe-Bough _Bayley._ The Puzzled Census-Taker _J. G. Saxe._ The Voices at the Throne _I. Westwood._ Hans Breitmann’s Party _Charles G. Leland._ Rob Roy MacGregor _Walter Scott._ Der Drummer _Charles F. Adams._ The Yankee and the Dutchman’s Dog Popping the Question The Bumpkin’s Courtship The Happy Life _Sir Henry Wotton._ At the Soldiers’ Graves _Robert Collyer._ Nobody there _Anonymous._ The Factory Girl’s Diary _Morton._ In the Tunnel “Jones” The Whistler “Good and Better” Jakie on Watermelon Pickle The Old Methodist’s Testimony

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