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 BUSHER'S GIRL 
 
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 FARM FOLKS. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
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 HOME TIES. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
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 THE OLD NE'W HAMPSHIRE HOME. A New 
 
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 THE OLD DAIRY HOMESTEAD. A Rural Comedy 
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 A "WHITE MOUNTAIN BOY. A Strong Melodrama in 
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 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
Busher's Girl 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts 
 
 By 
 F. RONEY WEIR 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COiMPANY 
 
 1915 
 

 Copyright 1915 by The Penn Publishing Company 
 
 ©cm 42168 
 
 TMP92-007503 
 
 Pusher's Girl N.QV 3 1915 
 
Busher's Girl 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Mr. Pride of Chicago 
 
 Helen Pride ...... his daughter 
 
 Petunia BusHER, . native of Slab County, Washington 
 Doctor {and justice of tJie peace^ James Busher. 
 Lambert Ames . a young 7nill worker and rancher 
 
 Mrs. Busher, and the ten Busher cJiildren {may be omitted) 
 
 Time. — One hour and a half. 
 
 STORY OF THE PLAY 
 
 Mr. Pride of Chicago has lost his money and, with his 
 mercenary daughter Helen, is living in a Western lumber 
 camp. Helen amuses herself with Lambert Ames, a small 
 rancher and mill worker. Petunia, daughter of lazy Jim 
 Busher, is a girl with a heart of gold, and secretly loves 
 Ames, but is too proud to try to win him. He inherits a 
 fortune, and Helen determines to marry him. Petunia is 
 going away, but Lambert hears something that maizes him 
 think she loves him. He pretends to be poor and wounded. 
 Helen deserts him promptly, but Petunia comes back to 
 nurse him, and is glad at last to be Ames' wife instead of 
 "just Busher's girl." 
 
COSTUMES, ETC. 
 
 Pride. Fifty. First act, smart business suit. Second 
 act, soft shirt and trousers. Thirt act, business suit. 
 
 Helen. Twenty-three. First act, street suit, hat and 
 gloves. Second act, simple but stylish house dress. Third 
 act, street suit. 
 
 Petunia. Twenty. First and second acts, plain but 
 pretty gingham working dress. Third act, plain business 
 suit and small hat. 
 
 BusHER. Fifty. Overalls and collarless shirt. Old felt 
 hat. 
 
 Lambert. Twenty-five. Well-dressed young ranchman, 
 in trousers and clean cotton shirt. Heavy boots. 
 
 PROPERTIES 
 
 Petunia. Dog chain, dish-cloth, towels, frying-pan. 
 
 Ames. Pitcher of milk and saucer, plate of bone, pocket 
 knife, sheet from cot, marriage license. 
 
 BusHER. Medicine bottles of all sizes and colors, several 
 miscellaneous packages, letter, newspaper bmidle containing 
 a pair of old boots, pipe. 
 
 Helen. Cards. 
 
 Pride. Two letters. 
 
 SCENE PLOT 
 
 EXTE RIOR BACKING INTERIOR BACKING (WALL) 
 
 I STAIR3 
 
 SCENE.— Acts I, II and III. Kitchen of Lambert 
 Ames; a plain, comfortable room, stove up l., tables R. 
 
 4 
 
SCENE PLOT 
 
 and L. Cupboard up c. Shelves up l. Hooks for cloth- 
 ing at R. Entrances up c, up r. and at L. A stepladder 
 with side covered with wood. Cloth or pasteboard will 
 suffice for stairs shown at door c. Only two or three steps 
 need be in sight. 
 
Busher's Girl 
 
 ACT I 
 
 SCENE. — Interior of Ames' house. Door, l. Door in 
 hack wall, r. Stair door, c. ; cook-stove to left of stair 
 door. Kitchen table, I.. Chair down w. Small table atid 
 hooks for hanging clothing, r. 2 able, L., and stove cov- 
 ered with kettles and dishes in disorder. 
 
 {At rise of curtain, room is empty. Knocking at door up r. 
 which opens slowly to adtnit Mr. Pride and Helen 
 Pride.) 
 
 Pride. Hello, the house ! Hello ! 
 
 (^Knocks on inside of door.') 
 
 Helen ingoing l., looking about disdaiiif idly). Nobody 
 at home but the kitchen fire and that's going out. Does the 
 young man live here alone ? 
 
 Pride (closing door and coming down r.). Yes. His 
 sister was married last week and has gone East. 
 
 Helen {corning do7vn l.). And are you sure this is the 
 Ames house, papa ? 
 
 Pride. Quite sure. It is the only two-story house in 
 the neighborhood. "The house with stairs," the natives 
 call it. It is supposed to be quite a mansion. 
 
 Helen {laughing sarcastically). And to think that we 
 should come down to living in such a — sty as this ! 
 
 Pride {down r.). You have yourself to thank for it. 
 And besides, we may not get a chance to live in this house. 
 The fellow was not at all keen about renting to us. It's this 
 house or a two-roomed shack, and as 1 said before, you 
 have nobody but yourself to thank that we were driven to 
 the coast. If you had accepted Shocklon his money would 
 have enabled me to pull through. 
 
 Helen. But Mr. Shockton was such a horrible old crea- 
 ture, papa ! 
 
 7 
 
8 busher's girl 
 
 Pride. You wouldn't have thought so if there had been 
 no Harold Lamar with which to compare him ! 
 
 Helen. How was 1 to know? 1, so young — so — so 
 ignorant. But I am sorry now, papa, and 1 promise to 
 marry any rich man you will produce to get you and myself 
 out of this horror ! (Shiidd/ers.) 
 
 Pkide. Old Shocktons are not to be picked up in a 
 Noilhvvest shingle-camp. At least not in a one-horse one 
 like this. People about here are as poor as poverty. I shall 
 be rated a bloated aristocrat because 1 own an interest in 
 this old rattletrap of a shingle mill. The income of the 
 thing will amount to nothing this first year — perhaps never 
 will amount to anything unless 1 can knock the business into 
 some sort of shape. 
 
 (JSiis K. and begins to figure npon a scrap of paper which 
 he takes from his pocket.) 
 
 Helen {inoving about the room). I presume we really 
 haven't any business in this house when its owner is away 
 from home. Who is he? 
 
 Pride. A small rancher who sometimes works in the 
 mill. 
 
 Helen. It's a horrid place. Where are the stairs? 
 
 ( Opens door to the right of stove disclosing a flight of very 
 perpendicular stairs with very narrow treads ; a step- 
 ladder may be made to serve for this. Turns to her 
 father and they both laugh. She closes tJte door quickly 
 at sou?id of a dog fight without and a girl's voice heard 
 trying to quell the fight. Door up r. files open and 
 Petunia Busher appears, luuiging to the end of a jerk- 
 ing chain and yelling to afi unseen dog.) 
 
 Petunia. Go home! Go home, I tell you! {Then 
 over her shoulder through the door.) Lammie ! Lammie 
 Ames, come out here and tie up your dog ! The hound 
 tagged me over and treed your cat and then Shep pitched 
 in, and Fve had a time, I tell you ! Come along out and 
 tie up Shep. (Catches sight of Hki.kn.) Hully gracious, 
 Lammie's got company. — Is Mr. Ames in there anywhere ? 
 
 Pride. No, he's not in. We have been waiting here 
 for him for some time. 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 9 
 
 (Petunia loses hold on chain and it is heard clanking away 
 into the distance.') 
 
 Petunia. There he goes ! Darn that Shep dog ! (^Enters, 
 hut retur?is to gaze out of door.) But 1 guess the hound 
 has got start enough to make home before Shep can ketch 
 him. If Shep gits to foolin' round our house maw'll heave 
 a shingle-bolt at him. 
 
 ( Coifies in, hangs up her battered hat, rolls up her sleeves y 
 goes to shelves up l. and gets dish-cloth.) 
 
 Helen {iip c). Are you going to wash the dishes? 
 
 Petunia. Yep. 
 
 Helen {i?i an amused and superior man?ier). Does the 
 owner of this house hire you to do his work ? 
 
 Petunia (^taking hot water from stove and pouring into 
 pan, etc.). He hires maw, but maw got kicked by a mule 
 to-day an' it busted her up so she can't navigate. 
 
 Helen. Oh, how unfortunate. What was your mother 
 doing with a mule ? 
 
 Petunia. We're a-breakin* the twenty. 
 
 Helen. You have no father, then ? 
 
 (Petunia at back of table, facing audience, washes dishes. 
 She gives Helen a scornful glance.) 
 
 Petunia. I should say I have ! Dr. James Busher, dis- 
 trict of the peace for Slab County, is my father. 
 
 (^Clatters among the dishes.) 
 
 Helen. Why doesn't your father do the ploughing? 
 
 Petunia. When it comes to eatin* an' bossin' fathers 
 are right there with the goods, but when it comes to ploughin' 
 the patch with a borried mule give me a woman every 
 time. (Puts in more dishes.) 
 
 Pride. I think I will walk down toward the mill. I 
 may meet Mr. — eh — the young man who owns the house. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Petunia. That your husband? 
 
 Helen. No, my father. Do you think it would be 
 right for a young person like me to be married to an old 
 man like that? {Sits, r.) 
 
 Petunia. Well, I should say nit ! Nor a young one 
 
10 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 either. (^S/ie rolls up a dish-towel and tosses it at Helen.) 
 While you're a-settin' you might as well dry the dishes for 
 me. There's a lot to do here, an' I've got to hike home to 
 git supper for paw an' the boys. 
 
 Helen {dodging towel, then picking it tip, brushing if 
 gingerly and wiping dishes). You have brothers, then ? 
 
 Petunia. Yep; four. 
 
 Helen {putting iviped dishes on table, R.). How nice. 
 And you are the only girl ? 
 
 Petunia. Well, now, not exactly. 
 
 Helen. It must be delightful to have a sister. 
 
 Petunia. Sister ! 
 
 Helen. You have more than one? 
 
 Petunia. Well, now, I should think so. 
 
 Helen. How many have you ? 
 
 Petunia. Let's see-e-e-e; there's Lily, Anne, Renie, 
 Tote, Louise an' Nancy — you may put the dishes in that 
 there cupboard by the door. 
 
 Helen {putting dishes aivay as directed). What are 
 those shelves for? {Indicates shelves ?iear stove.) 
 
 Petunia. Those are to dry your overalls on an' keep 
 your tobacco an' flea-powder where you can find 'em. 
 
 Helen. And you don't approve of men? 
 
 Petunia. Well, I should say me for the negative ! Do 
 you? 
 
 Helen. Oh, really, it depends on the man. (Dreamily.) 
 If he is big, and handsome and young, blue-eyed and ten- 
 der, and has a lot of money 
 
 Petunia {reflectively). Lammie Ames is all them — ex- 
 cept one. 
 
 Helen. And that ** one" is sure to be the indispensable 
 requisite. 
 
 Petunia. He ain't rich, if that's what you mean. 
 
 Helen {smiling and glancing sarcastically about room). 
 I should imagine not. 
 
 Petunia. Well, now, don't you let your imagination git 
 away with yeh. Miss VVhat's-yer-name. Lammie Ames ain't 
 rich himself, but he's got mighty high-toned relations back 
 East. He's got an aunt back there some'rs that owns a great 
 big chunk o' land right in the bosom of a city ; a chunk so 
 big that it makes a feller's head whizzle to think of it. 
 
 Helen (c). Indeed? How interesting. 
 
 Petunia. You bet " indeed " ! When Lammie's sister 
 
BUSHER S GIRL II 
 
 Mary got married last month her aunt sent her a weddin' 
 dress Oh, gosh, but it was swell! (^Steps from be- 
 hind table to describe dress. Still holding dripping dish- 
 cloth in one hand she illustrates against Helen 's<'/r<?^j' and 
 hair, Helen nieanivhile shrinking fro7?i contact with dish- 
 cloth.') It had a satin panel about so wide which run down 
 to a pleat right about here — and the cutest little bunch of 
 white posies riglit about here — no, I guess that buncli was 
 just about here — and a veil that come 'round to here and 
 then just squshed right out on both sides, like water runnin* 
 out of her ears — oh, it was Star A, number one ! 
 
 Helen. Must have been beautiful. 1 should think this 
 young Ames would go East and live with his aunt. 
 
 Petunia. 1 s'pose his aunt don't want him to; and 
 Lammie wouldn't go if she did. He likes the climate out 
 here, and he likes his farm and he likes his mill work 
 
 Helen (ivearily). What does he do in the mill? 
 
 Petunia. Why, just now he's dogup man. 
 
 Helen. I don't know what that means — dogup man. 
 
 Petunia {scornfully). Don't know what a dogup man 
 means? Why, he fastens the logs together so they can be 
 hauled to the mill. What part of the country did you come 
 from, anyway? 
 
 Helen {tragically). From Chicago! Dear old Chicago ! 
 Oh, how 1 long to go back to the lights — to the music — oh, 
 the mad music ! Shall I ever hear it again ? Shall I ever 
 tango as I have tangoed in the past, from ten at night until 
 five in the morning? 
 
 Petunia. I've seen that there word, tango, in the '' Daily 
 Star" 
 
 Helen. And, of course, because you are young you 
 longed to try it. 
 
 Petunia. Why, no, I can't say as I did. What is it, 
 anyhow ? 
 
 Helen. A dance. The most passionately fascinating 
 that has ever been evolved {Takes a few steps.) 
 
 Petunia. Oh ! I thought it was some kind of a Jap 
 sausage. 
 
 Helen. I will show you how it is done. 
 
 {Business of teaching Petunia to tango. At end of per - 
 forma?ice Petunia goes back to the dishes, L., with hand 
 on side, and puffing fro7n exertion.) 
 
12 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 Petunia. Say, that's wuss'n mushiii' up grade packin* 
 two buckets of brick ! 1 wouldn't want to work at that 
 steady. 
 
 Helen. Nonsense ! With Harold Lamar for partner it 
 was heaven — nothing less. {With a tragic shrug of shoul- 
 ders and upward movemejit of palms.) But I am out of it 
 all forever ! 1 shall never again hear the muffled roar of the 
 dear old streets, or smell the perfume 
 
 Petunia. Say, that's where the stock yards are, ain't it? 
 
 Helen. of the flowery parks and the lake — I have 
 
 thrown it all away ! Life is over for me — all the life of the 
 city ! 
 
 Petunia. Well, now, let me put yeh wise : We've got 
 some smells out here, I want to state. You step into the 
 slashin' when the sun gits busy with the down timber — the 
 
 cedar and the fir Say ! the sweetness makes yeh ketch 
 
 your breath ! An' not many miles from here there's an 
 ocean that fur smells would make your little old jerkwater 
 lake git down on its knees an' beg, an' that's straight. 
 
 Helen. Oh, but the life 
 
 Petunia. Well, as for the life, we eat an' drink an* sleep 
 an' die an' are born just the same as folks do in Chicago. 
 Wherever there's men an' women an' dogs an' childern an' 
 mules there's life. You don't have to jostle elbows in a city 
 in order to see life. It goes on just about the same every- 
 where. We've got all kinds of folks, too. 1 could stand 
 out on that there knoll by the fence an' sling this dish-clout 
 and hit as good a man as walks the airth, or as hard workin' 
 a one, or as lazy a one — an' 1 ain't hintin' who the last one 
 is, nuther ! 
 
 Helen. Is it the owner of this house? 
 
 Petunia. Not on your photograph ! Lammie Ames 
 ain't no shirk ! 
 
 Helen. Does your father work in the shingle mill? 
 
 Petunia. He used to ; he handled a cant-hook fur a 
 spell, but he don't work no more. It don't agree with him. 
 He's an inventor. 
 
 Helen. Of what? 
 
 Petunia. Oh, medicine fur different things — mostly for 
 warts. You take it innerly. It's a perventative. 
 
 Helen. I think you are a good deal interested in this 
 young Ames. 
 
 Petunia. Who, me? Well, now, you're off your trol- 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 13 
 
 ley, an' off bad. No sweethearting fur me, I betcher ! I 
 know what it leads to. 
 
 Helen {down k.). Nothing terrible, to be sure. 
 
 Petunia. Yes, it does. (//^ a solemn hiss.) It leads 
 to marriage ! 
 
 Helen {laughing). Is that so terrible? 
 
 Petunia. You bet ! I've seen it — right in our own fam- 
 ily. It may be all right fur the men, but it's jest plain mis- 
 ery fur the women. Ask maw ! No, sir ! I ain't lookin* 
 for no man. 
 
 (^Grasps the dish-pan by both handles and carries it to the 
 door tip R. c, where she heaves its contents over Pkide 
 ajid Lambert Ames, who are about to enter.) 
 
 {Enter Pride and Ames, dripping.^ 
 
 Ames. Tunie, how many times have I told you not to 
 heave your dish-water out like that? {Vet\]nik swabs at 
 Ames with the dish-towel, Helen helps her angry father. 
 Both girls convulsed with laughter, but trying to hide it from 
 the j?ien.') What are you doing here, anyhow, Tunie? 
 Where is your mother? 
 
 Petunia. That Stephen mule kicked maw in the shin an' 
 she's shut down fur one while. And that reminds me I got 
 to hike home an' git supper fur paw an' the boys, or there'll 
 be doin's up to Pusher's. 
 
 Pride {still brushing and rubbing; to Ames). If you 
 will be good enough to show my daughter and myself over 
 the house I shall be obliged. The rig is waiting to take us 
 back to the village. 
 
 Ames, Certainly. Just a minute, please. {Peers be- 
 hind stove. ^ Tunie, where's Cat-Betsy? 
 
 Petunia {starting guiltily and clapping her palms to her 
 cheeks). Honest, Lammie, I forgot all about Cat-Betsy. 
 When I started to come over here I shut the hound up, but 
 paw must 'a' let him out. He follered me and treed Cat- 
 Betsy, an' then your dog jumped him an' they had a tussle, 
 an' 1 got the chain on Shep an' he got away, an' I come in 
 and found you had company, an' 
 
 Pride (l., interrupting, with watch in hand). If you 
 will show us the house 
 
 Ames. Just a minute, please. {Goes to cupboard a?id 
 
14 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 pours out a saucer of milk ^ which he carries to the door.) 
 Kitty, kitty, kitty ! 
 
 [Goes out up R., followed by Petunia.) 
 
 Pride. I wonder how long he thinks he can keep us 
 hanging around here ? If lie doesn't care to rent his house 
 we can look up another, 1 presume. 
 
 Helen (tnockingly). Remember, it is the only house 
 with stairs. 
 
 Pkide. I think we might manage without those stairs. 
 
 Helen. It is all horrible ! Sordid and horrible ! 
 
 Pride. You have yourself to thank for it. You had it 
 in your power to keep both yourself and me out of it. 
 
 Helen. Father, 1 couldn't marry that hideous old man ! 
 Ugh ! The thought of him makes me shudder ! 
 
 Pride. Pooh ! It wasn't the fact of his being old which 
 prevented your marrying him. If he had been twenty-four 
 it would have been the same. It was because he wasn't 
 Harold Lamar; that was the reason, miss. 
 
 Helen. Try me with a young rich man and see ! 
 
 (^Enter Ames and Petunia. Pride looks at watch again 
 impatiently. ) 
 
 Pride. Well, what about the house? We haven't much 
 more time to wait. 
 
 Ames. Just a minute. (^Goes to cupboard, from the bot- 
 tom of ivhich he brings out a plate of bones, explainins^.) 
 For the dog. (^He and Petunia prepare a tremendous dish 
 of food at table tip l.) Shep is a hearty eater. 
 
 (^Carries bones to door, where he whistles. Pride stamps 
 about impatiently. Helen disgusted. Ames goes out, 
 returns with ejnpfy plate which he puts on table, R.) 
 
 Pride. Really, if you care to rent us your house you 
 must allow us to look it over, and then we must go. 
 
 Ames (^opening the stair door'). Well, there are the 
 stairs; help yourselves. No danger of getting lost up there. 
 Walk right up and inspect the chamber. Two beautiful 
 bedrooms, one with a sea view, and the other with a row of 
 hooks upon which to hang your clothes. Perhaps Tunie 
 has time to go up with you and show you 'round. 
 
 Petunia (/// l.). Well, now, nix fur yours truly. 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 15 
 
 Tunic's got to bustle home an' git Dr. James Busher's sup- 
 per, or he'll be hot-footin' over here all ruffed up like a 
 settin' hen. (^Goes r. and puts oti hat.) 
 
 Pride. Oh, there's nothing to hinder our going up alone, 
 if you don't object. 
 
 (^He starts up stairs^ turns ^ gives Helen a hafid to assist 
 her to follow J and they scramble up out of sight.) 
 
 Petunia (jip r., tragically). Lammie, if they take this 
 house what's to become of Cat-Betsy and the kittens? 
 
 Ames (/// l., startled by 7iew idea). Cat-Betsy would 
 go with the house. 
 
 Petunia (^scornfully). Huh ! I've got a photograph 
 of that young Dotty-Dimple runnin' with a plate of fish for 
 Cat-Betsy, 1 have ! 
 
 (Ames troubled. Sound of arrival without^ voice calling 
 ^^Whoaf Whoa, coifoundyeh, whoa!'' Door opens 
 to admit head of Dr. James Busher.) 
 
 BusHER. Hey, Lambert, I've brought Stephen ! 
 
 Ames. Well, take him to the barn and give him his oats. 
 
 (^Enter Busher, up r.) 
 
 Busher. Since when have I become your mule-tender? 
 
 Ames. You've had the use of the mule all day, haven't 
 you? 
 
 Busher. I should say not ! He kicked Julia this fore- 
 noon about 'leven, and he's stood tied to the fence ever 
 since. In reality, Lambert, you ought to pay me damages, 
 
 but because of our long-standin' friendship (Stops 
 
 suddenly and tips chin toward ceiling in listeiiing attitude.) 
 What's that noise up-stairs? Your house ain't ha'nted, is 
 it, Lambert? 
 
 Ames {up l.). Mr. Pride, the new man in the mill, and 
 his daughter are up stairs looking over the chamber. He's 
 thinking of renting the house. 
 
 Busher (up c). Renting this house? Lambert, I didn't 
 think that of you ! Rent your house to a perfect stranger ? 
 
 Ames. I thought of it. 
 
 Busher. And you knew that I was lookin' for a house, 
 my family long ago havin' outgrown my present residence. 
 I will rent your house. 
 
i6 busher's girl 
 
 Ames. No, you won't ! I'm going to rent it to Pride if 
 he wants it. 
 
 Petunia {iip r.). Lammie, what will become of Shep 
 if you rent your house to them folks ? 
 
 Ames {worried^. Why, Great Gratitude, Tunie, haven't 
 these folks got tjj keep a dog ? 
 
 Petunia {coming dowti r.). You think that old sour- 
 dough up there will stand fur a dog? Not on your night- 
 cap ! And what would you do with Stephen ? 
 
 Ames. Couldn't your folks keep Stephen.? 
 
 BusHER. No, we could not keep Stephen. Stephen 
 ain't fit for a woman to drive. I've got some consideration 
 for my wife. I'm goin' to bone Ole Oieson to lend me his 
 horse. Now, you see, if you were to rent me your place we 
 could take care of your entire menagerie and pay the rent 
 that way. 
 
 Petunia. And you could board with us. Maw makes 
 corkin' pancakes, an' you've tasted my bread. 
 
 Ames {suddenly tnaking up his mind^. All right. I'll 
 tell this man he can't have the house 
 
 (JVoise of falling down-stairs. Bush er jumps toward door, 
 R. The stair door is burst open and Pride rolls into the 
 middle of the floor and lies still. Helen shrieks and 
 comes creeping carefully down-stairs backward.^ 
 
 Helen. Your horrid old stairs are dreadful ! Are you 
 hurt, papa? {^B ends over her father.') 
 
 Pride (sitting up). Every bone in my body is broken ! 
 Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! Is there a doctor anywhere in reach 
 of this forsaken hole? 
 
 Busher {shelling out bottles of different sizes from all 
 of his pockets and putting them on the table ^ R,). We can 
 fix you up right here and now, mister. ( Goes to Pride and 
 exainines him for injuries. Fingers on Pride's leg.) When 
 I strike a break you yell. 
 
 Pride. Ouch ! Get away, you fool I 
 
 Busher. Be ca'm, be ca'm. I thought I'd strike some- 
 thing pretty soon. Your leg ain't broke, it's sprained. 
 
 Pride. And so is my shoulder, and my back, and my 
 elbows ! 
 
 Busher. I dare say. But we'll fix all that in a jiffy. I 
 have something here. {Shakes villainous-looking bottle.) 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 17 
 
 It is the Unsurpassed Golden Wart Elixir, but it is also the 
 most wonderful, all-round do-good that was ever invented. 
 My wife was kicked by a mule this forenoon, but by the 
 judicious use of this concoction she is now up an' gittin* 
 supper. Petunie, you lazy scad, why ain't you home helpin' 
 your maw ? 
 
 (^Afen lift Pride a7id put him into a chair doivn r. He 
 groans. Helen goes to him down R. Petunia goes 
 up c.) 
 
 Pride. We shall be obliged to rent this place now. I 
 sha'n't be able to get out of this for months ! 
 
 Helen {down r., despairingly). Those horrid old stairs ! 
 
 Petunia. Poor Cat-Betsy ! 
 
 Ames {crossing to l. ). And poor Shep ! 
 
 Petunia (up c). And poor old Stephen ! 
 
 BusHER ([<.). Now, ain't that just my luck? I've 
 always wanted to live in a house with stairs, and this is the 
 nearest I've ever come to it ! 
 
 Helen (to Ames), We'll look after your cat. She goes 
 with the house. 
 
 Ames. Oh, that will be very good of you. 
 
 Helen. I guess papa broke the stairs. 
 
 Ames, I'll fix them up. 
 
 Helen {sjniling). Thank you. And, if you can, just 
 come over now and then to see things are in order. We're 
 so new to this sort of thing — you know. 
 
 (Petunia comes down c. ) 
 
 Ames. Oh, yes. I'll keep an eye on the place. 
 Petunia (to Helen). Perhaps you think the man goes 
 with the house, too. 
 
 Ames. Tunie 
 
 Petunia {fiercely^ to Helen). Well, he don't. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
ACT II 
 
 SCENE.—Same as Act I. 
 
 (Pride afid Helen discovered at rise of curtain playing 
 cards at table, L. He is in armchair left of table down L., 
 she in kitchen chair at right of table. His leg is band- 
 aged and sticks out stiffly resting o?i block of wood.) 
 
 Helen (^yawning'). I wonder if Lambert Ames will go 
 after the mail to-day. 
 
 Pride. I hope so; I might get a check from Houghton 
 and Hall. But I can't understand why you are so anxious 
 to get mail. 
 
 Helen. Old Shockton might renew his offer of marriage. 
 
 Pride. You'd turn him down if he did. 
 
 Helen. Would I? Try me ! I'd marry the Wizard of 
 Oz if he had money. I don't see what is to become of us. 
 
 Pride. The mill isn't doing so badly since young Ames 
 has taken hold of it. He understands the running of it 
 better than I do 
 
 (^Cat mews.) 
 
 Helen (throwing down cards and jumping up). There's 
 that horrid cat again ! (Ru7is to door, r.) Scat ! Go 
 away ! 
 
 (Picks up pebble and thrown it out the door. Returns to 
 game. They play.) 
 
 Pride (angrily). What d'yeh mean by trumping your 
 own trick ! (Cat mews outside the door. Hele^ Jumps up 
 again.) You don't know whether you are playing cards or 
 pom- pom- pullaway ! (Helen /^?//i-/ they play.) There 
 you go again ! 
 
 (Throws cards at her. Hei. en jumps up weeping, rims to 
 R. Pride bumps his chair about until his back is to her 
 with his leg sticki?ig stiffly to L.) 
 
 {Enter Ames, at door up r.) 
 i8 
 
busher's girl 19 
 
 Ames (coming dow?i to Helen, anxiously). What's this 
 — tears? What is the matter? Poor child, is your father 
 worse ? 
 
 Helen (sobbing). He — he — isn't worse ! He couldn't 
 be worse ! He is just as bad as he can be 1 He — he's just 
 cruel to me ! 
 
 (Fops her head doivn upon Ames' shoulder and weeps. 
 Ames, not used to women' s tears ^ is visibly affected by her 
 proximity and her emotions. Glares across stage at 
 Pride, who glares back over his shoulder^ then pulls hat 
 over his eyes and sits sullenly with his back to them.) 
 
 Ames (awkwardly pattifig Hel^^'s head). Well, well ; 
 I wouldn't cry. 
 
 (At open door up R. appears Petunia, who carries a lotig- 
 handled skillet heaped with scraps. She looks in door. 
 Business at sight of tableau.) 
 
 Petunia (very loud). Kiity, kitty, kitty ! (Enters at 
 door up R.) Has any one seen anything of Cat-Betsy? 
 
 Pride (over his shoulder). Come here, Helen ! (Helen 
 crosses to her father. Petunia and Ames exeunt, door up 
 R.) You're a pretty one — weeping on the shoulder of a 
 shingle-weaver ! 
 
 Helen. He isn't a shingle-weaver; he's a dogup man. 
 I couldn't help it, papa. For a moment he looked so 
 like 
 
 Pride. Old Shockton, I presume. 
 
 Helen. Like — like Harold Lamar ! 
 
 Pride, Bah 1 Harold Lamar ! Pm thoroughly dis- 
 gusted ! 
 
 Helen. So am I ! You'd no business to bring me out 
 here into the wilds with nobody about but a dogup man ! 
 A girl has to have somebody to go on with ! 
 
 Pride. Well, dog your dogup man over here to help get 
 me to bed. 1 want to take a nap! (Calls to Ames.) 
 Hey — you ! Come and help my daughter get me into my 
 room. 
 
 Ames (appearing at door tip R. with Petunia). In a 
 minute. I must look for the cat first. (Disappears.) 
 
 Petunia (entering and crossing to l.). Didn't you for- 
 git suthin' ? (Pkide glares at her superciliously.) 1 say — 
 didn't you forgit suLliin' ? 
 
20 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 Pride. What do you mean — forget ? 
 Petunia. Maw allers taught me to say please, 'specially 
 if 1 didn't deserve what I was askin' fur. 
 
 (^Eiiter Ames with empty skillet^ which he gives to Petunia 
 and goes L.) 
 
 Ames. Now I'll boost you up, Mr. Pride. {To Helen, 
 tenderly.^ No, no, let uje lilt the greatest weight. You 
 steady his leg. Petunia, can't you give us a hand? 
 
 Petunia. Nut that anybody knows of! Pvegot a crick 
 in muh neck ! (Helen a?id Ames buinpily carry Pride 
 tliroiigh the door, L. Petunia, inimickutg.) Let me lift 
 the heavy part of the load. You steady his head — that's 
 light ! 
 
 {Drops the efupty skillet^ and before it hits the floor kicks it 
 out the door. Noise and exclaniatiojis outside. Enter 
 Busher. He carries the skillet and has other hand 
 pressed to his fore lie ad. Sits down by table, r., iji a 
 dazed sort of way, takes out much soiled hafidkerchiefy 
 wipes brow and exatnines handkerchief for blood.) 
 
 Busher. Is it swellin' ? 
 
 Petunia {examining her father'' s brow). Naw ! It's 
 dirty — that's all. Needs soakin'. 
 
 Busher. It got soaked just now. Strangest thing ever 
 happened to me in my life. I was walkin' along thinking 
 about my work 
 
 Petunia. About your what? 
 
 Busher. About my wart preventative — and this here new 
 liniment that I've made — {taking large bottle from pocket 
 and putting it on table) when a skillet right out of a clear 
 sky struck me like a thunderbolt — struck me right here. 
 Why, it nearly dazed me fur a minute. {Picks up skillet 
 and examines it minutely.') Looks like a jicrfectly good 
 skillet. {Hands it to Petunia.) Take it home to your 
 maw and tell her it's a birthday present from me, • (Petunia 
 rather sheepishly takes skillet.) Say, give that here a min- 
 ute. {Examines tJie skillet again.) Looks like our skillet, 
 but I don't see how it comes to be flyin' round in the air 
 way down here. Ain't been no high wind that I know of. 
 {Hands it back to Petunia, regarding her suspiciously.) 
 Where's the boss ? 
 
busher's girl 21 
 
 Petunia. Lammie Ames just packed him into the room 
 there. {Points!..') 
 
 BusHER. I've brought him some more medicine. {Takes 
 out another bottle and puts it on the table, r.) That's 
 Lightning Pain Eradicator. {Takes out another,') Neu- 
 ralgic's Hope. {Another.) Golden Bone Soother. 
 
 Petunia {uncorking bottles and sniffing each one). 
 They're all the same, and they're all made outen merlasses 
 an' water, an' you know it, paw. 
 
 (BusHER makes as if to strike her. She skips to L. of stage 
 threatefiing him with the skillet.) 
 
 BusHER. Miserable ungrateful little skeezicks ! Moses 
 sure knew what he was talkin' about when he said how 
 sharper than an achin' tooth it was to have a thinkless 
 child! {Takes bottle from table with which to illustrate^ 
 and assumes the attitude and to fie of a lecturer.) Don't 
 you know that in every ingrejunt — er — ah — solution, there 
 has to be a body — a platform, so to speak, to build your 
 curative — er — fabrication on ? Well, then : That's where 
 your ignorance comes in. {Enter Ames, l.) Now i make 
 my remedies on a foundation of merlasses an' water 
 
 Ames. 1 guess that's right, Jim; you build your founda- 
 tion and then you lay a molasses floor and put up a corn 
 syrup house with a maple sugar cupola. 
 
 BusHER {indignantly loading his bottles into his pocket), 
 I'd see you die by inches before I'd give you a drop of my 
 medicine ! 
 
 Ames (c). I'm willing to take my chances, but if you 
 want a testimonial I will say that I believe your stuff is as 
 good as half the dope that's swallowed. 
 
 Busher. How is Mr. Pride? 
 
 Ames. Belter. He's about to the hyena stage now. 
 
 Busher. Hum-m-m, everything is proceeding satisfac- 
 torially then, and just as I had planned. 
 
 Ames. You've been reading war bulletins, I see. 
 
 Busher. I'm just fetchin' him some new medicine. 
 
 {Crosses and kfiocks at door of room, L., and is admitted. 
 Petunia crosses and goes to door up r.) 
 
 Ames. Wait a minute, Tunie ; I've got some good news 
 for you. Miss Pride is going to hire you. 
 
22 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 Petunia. What fur ? 
 
 Ames. To help take care of her father. 
 
 Petunia. 1 ain't no animal tamer. 
 
 Ames. Come on back a mijiute. What's your hurry? 
 
 Petunia. I've got to git home. Maw'll be lookin' all 
 over creation an' Eurrup for this skillet. 
 
 Ames (^perching on table ^ l.). Come over here and sit 
 down. {Indicates chair y l.) 
 
 Petunia (c, facing audience, holding skillet in frofit of 
 her in a present arms attitude). 1 don't want to set. 
 
 Ames. What do yoa want to do, then ? 
 
 Petunia. 1 want to stand up here and hold this skillet. 
 
 Ames {provoked). Well, stand up there and hold your 
 skillet; 1 don't care, but 1 want to talk to you about Miss 
 Pride. She's a delicate little thing, and not used to hard 
 work. Not strong, you know. 
 
 Petunia {giving him a look of scor7i over her shoulder 
 a7id then bending over the skillet ifi silent laughter). Strong ! 
 Say ! Maw 'n' me are clearin' stump land with your mule, 
 an' that's supposed to be some hard work. Strike a snag 
 once in a while and take a header right up an' over the 
 plough an' land in near the stern end of Stephen — that's 
 the way maw met up with her accident the other day. Maw 
 can stand work like that all right, but she couldn't stand 
 doin' this fur hours on a stretch ; nulher could I. {Illus- 
 trates by ati exaggerated example of tango as taught her by 
 Helen in Act I, with the skillet as partner.) It's funny 
 how weak some folks are for work and how strong for 
 dancin'. 
 
 Ames [complainingly). You don't like Miss Pride. 
 
 Petunia {shuddering). I love her ! 
 
 Ames {sighing and 7nusi?ig sentimentally). I never saw 
 such lovely golden hair. 
 
 Petunia. It's long. 
 
 {Does a pantomime on the side of wifiding a hand in long 
 tresses and yanking them unmercifully.) 
 
 Ames. Have you ever seen it down ? 
 Petunia. Yep — an' off. 
 Ames. Eh ? 
 
 Petunia. I said yes ! Yeh gittin' deaf, Lammie? 
 Ames. She's a tender-hearted little thing, don't you 
 think, Tunie? 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 23 
 
 Petunia Don't ask me; I ain't the one to judge. Ask 
 somebody who depends on her fur victuals — ask Cat-Betsy. 
 Betsy's gittin' to look like a wire rat-trap on legs. 
 
 Ames. Petunia, 1 feel as if I ought to marry and settle 
 down. 
 
 Petunia. That's too bad considerin' what poor pickin' 
 you've got around here. 
 
 Ames. How do you mean — poor picking ? 
 
 Petunia. Well, there's only three grown women in the 
 camp, an' one of them's married. That's maw, an' if she 
 was lucky enough to git out of it this time I don't believe 
 she'd ever chance it agin. But you never can tell. A 
 woman that's made one poor bet is allers hotfoot to stake 
 agin. But maw ain't widdered, so that cuts down the 
 supply to me an' Miss Pride. I wouldn't have you if you 
 was weighted down with diamonds till you was bow-legged — 
 an' Miss Pride wouldn't have you unless you was, so there 
 you are ! 
 
 Ames. Do you think she is mercenary? 
 
 Petunia. Eh? Oh, I don't know as she is. She's 
 healthy enough, I guess. 
 
 Ames. I mean, do you think she wouldn't marry me 
 unless I was rich ? 
 
 Petunia. Say, I ain't no matrimonial bureau. If you've 
 got a hankering after Miss Pride git in an' rustle. As I 
 understand it any old fizzle of a man can git the woman he 
 wants if he pesters her long enough. 
 
 Ames. Even you, Tunie ? 
 
 Petunia {with her back to hint). Ain't anybody been 
 swarmin' me very hard, as I've noticed. 
 
 {Enter Busher, l.) 
 
 Busher. Say, Lambert, the boss wants me to go down 
 to the store and git his mail. 
 
 Ames. Well, what's to hinder? Guess we're all willing. 
 Busher. What's the matter with my driving Stephen ? 
 
 {Sits dowfi L.) 
 
 Ames. Nothing the matter except that Stephen isn't 
 harnessed. 
 
 Busher. Oh, well, that won't take you long. PU set 
 here and rest till you bring him round. 
 
24 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 Ames {looking at Busher a mo?nent, then going R. toward 
 door J shaking his head and laughing). You get my goat ! 
 
 Busher {lighting pipe). 1 don't care for your goat ; it's 
 your mule 1 want just now. I'll bring up your mail, too, 
 Lambert, to pay for the use of the animal. 
 
 Ames. You know 1 never have any mail. 
 
 Petunia. There might be a letter from Mary. 
 
 Ames. That's so. 'i'isn't likely, though; Mary's no 
 hand to write. 
 
 {Exity up v..) 
 
 Petunia. Well, did the old man buy any of your dope? 
 
 Busher. He did. 
 
 Petunia. How much did he give yeh ? 
 
 Busher. Fifty cents for a bottle of Bone Easer, and a 
 dollar for the Heart Regulator. 
 
 Petunia. Got any of that last left? 
 
 Busher. One bottle. ( Takes bottle from pocket and 
 puts it on table. Petunia takes bottle from table, looks at 
 it, shakes it up, then drinks it.) Here ! What yeh doin', 
 Petunie ? 
 
 Petunia. Takin' medicine fur muh heart ; it's goin' 
 wrong. 
 
 Busher. Fiddlesticks \ What's yer symptoms ? 
 
 Petunia. I feel ugly toward folks that 1 ain't no busi- 
 ness to feel ugly toward. I feel like bitin' ! 
 
 {Snaps her teeth at her father.) 
 
 Busher {drawing back). That ain't heart disease, Pe- 
 tunie; that's hydrophobia 1 
 
 Petunia. An' then all to once I feel as if I'd jest got to 
 beller right out ! 
 
 {Turns away and crooks an arm, in which she hides her 
 face and weeps loudly. Sound of wagon outside. Ames' 
 voice, " Whoa, Stephen .' ") 
 
 {Enter Ames through door, r, c. Comes hurriedly doivn 
 to Petunia.) 
 
 Ames. Tunie, what in thunder's the matter ? 
 
 {Comes up behiiid her ajid attempts to co7nfort her. She 
 kicks backward at him.) 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 2$ 
 
 Petunia. Git away ! I don't want yeh anywheres round 
 me ! 
 
 (^He tries again ; site kicks hifji off.) 
 
 Ames. Busher, you old shim, what have you been saying 
 to make her cry like that ? For ten cents I'd knock your 
 head off ! 
 
 Busher (^getting up hastily and starting for door up r,). 
 I ain't said a single thing — honest I ain't, Lambert ! Petunie 
 thinks she's got heart disease, and she's been takin' some of 
 my medicine 
 
 Ames. Great Scott, you've killed her ! 
 
 (^Approaches Petunia once more. Same business.') 
 
 Busher. She ain't got any symptoms of heart disease. 
 
 Ames (anxiously). What are the symptoms of heart 
 disease ? 
 
 Busher (^squaring himself and beginning oracularly). A 
 disinclination to stir about 
 
 Petunia {going up r. a/id handing her father the 
 bottle). Here, paw, you take it yourself; you're pretty 
 bad off. 
 
 (^Enter Helen, l.) 
 
 Helen. What is the matter? I thought I heard a 
 woman crying. 
 
 (Petunia, surreptitiously drying her eyes, motio7is men not 
 to tell.) 
 
 Ames. Guess it was the wind in the firs. We're liable 
 to have rain soon. Come, Busher, get up steam and start. 
 Stephen's getting restless. Whoa, Stephen ! 
 
 Helen. Oh, Mr. Busher, if you are going to the store 
 will you please get this bottle filled with glycerine and rose- 
 water for me, and buy me a copy of "The Ladies' Home 
 Comfort"? And father wants some good cigars, and a 
 porous plaster and some shaving-soap, and some arnica. 
 
 Busher (^gallantly). All right, Miss Pride. 
 
 Ames. And you might get a box of canned milk and 
 twenty-five pounds of sugar for the cookhouse. 
 
 Busher. Just as you say, Lambert. 
 
 Petunia. And — paw — why not git a new pair of shoes 
 for maw with that one-fifty? She needs 'em fierce. Then 
 
26 busker's girl 
 
 I can wear her old ones and Lily can wear mine, and Ann 
 can take Lily's, and Renie can take Ann's, an' Tote Renie's, 
 an' Louise Tote's, an' Nancy Louise's, an' maw can take 
 Nancy's an' cut 'era down for the baby. [Comes dowfi R.) 
 BusHER. That would be the same as gittin' eight pairs 
 of new shoes ! AVha'd'yh think 1 am, Petunie, a million- 
 aire? Besides, I've got to git some tobacco and a jug of 
 merlasses. 
 
 (^Exit through door, and is heard outside gettifig Stephen 
 under way.') 
 
 Helen. Father wants to talk to you about the mill, Mr. 
 Ames. 
 
 Ames. I'll go right in. {Goes to door, l. ; stops ivith 
 hand on latch.) 1 guess I'll have to come and help you with 
 your father, Miss Pride; Petunia can't doit. She isn't 
 strong enough. Her heart's affected. 
 
 Helen {iip c, sweetly). Oh, thank you so much, Mr. 
 Ames ; that is so sweet of you. 
 
 (Petunia, r., has symptoms on the side again.') 
 
 {Exit Ames, l.) 
 
 Petunia. No, I ain't strong enough. And, besides, Pve 
 got to cut hay for the cow and fmish gittin' the stumps out 
 o' the breakin'. I can't stand real hard work. 
 
 Helen. Pm so sorry. 
 
 Petunia. Awh, come out o' the brush ! What's the use 
 o' lyin' ! You'd a good sight ruther have Lammie help you 
 with the old man than to have me. 
 
 Helen {demurely). Well — of course — a man's strength 
 is better than a girl's in a case of this kind. 
 
 Petunia. Yeah ! I guess so. You're the kind that can 
 allers find a man to carry 'em across the muddy spots in life. 
 There's another kind that have to slop right through on their 
 own shanks an' dry their own stockin's afterward. Maw 
 an' me are in that bunch. 
 
 Helen. Petunia, I believe you are jealous of me. I be- 
 lieve you think your sweetheart, Mr, Ames, is falling in love 
 with me. 
 
 Petunia {savagely). He ain't my sweetheart ! I tell 
 yeh 1 never had a sweetheart ! I wouldn't have him if he 
 
BU5HER 5 GIRL IJ 
 
 sweat ten-doilar gold pieces ! No 5ir-€e-tcb ! Gettin" dar- 
 ned is smhin' fierce. I knovr that by hoi^e : 
 
 Helen. Oh, so far as marning is concerned, neither 
 would I marry Mr. Ames 
 
 Petxxll (jifith fire). You don't mean to say you don't 
 thir.k he's good enough fur yeh, do you ? 
 
 Helex. Why — of course — he may I "gh 
 
 Petunl^. Good enough! Y:u a! mend his 
 
 trousers! He's a gende: :gh, if he 
 
 does wear woodsmen's b>; - He's kind- 
 
 hearted, he feeds them as is de .firom Stephen 
 
 right down to the cat! He ..^ ...c; ^^ -i :? h:s sister 
 Mary 
 
 Heeen {amused^. "Uliv don't vou marrv aim vourscli, 
 Petunia? 
 
 Petunla. They's two tt - 
 to!d yeh, an' the other is : _ i 
 
 miny girls from marr _ — . 
 
 I'm jasr Jim Busher- . H : - 
 
 else. a~i when a ra^.; . ; ? jc^t 
 
 like a runaway horse — : ■ : r:i.:is 
 
 between his srartiu' an bis sioppm' place 
 
 Helen (Jaughin^). You may be right. Petu: a. 1-: 
 never fear; 1 sha'n't marry Mr. Ames; he's not at all my 
 kind, you know. 1 wouldn't care to have you tell him I 
 said so, because — ^well — ^he has fine eyes, and I like his 
 shoulders — and — dear me, but it's deadly dull with father 
 out here in the woods ! (Sits daurn l.) 
 
 Petunia (perching on table, r.). So you're willin' to 
 break a good young feller's heart all to flinders for the sake 
 of passin' away the tinae while you are up here in the 
 woods? 
 
 Helen. Oh, not quite that. Petunia. But why : 
 
 I let him amuse me? 
 
 Petl'nla.. Do you want me to tell you what I thinii c f 
 that kind of goin* on ? 
 
 Helen. You may if yon like. Your father won't come 
 wi:h the mail for some time. 
 
 PimTNiA (^getting down f ram the table). Let me lay this 
 skillet out of my hand. I don't know what I might be 
 tempted to do with it. (^Carries it hick and leans ity han- 
 dJe :dp, against tJu wall near dt7or.) There ! I won't go 
 oS home an* fuigit it now. QComes down c. and squares 
 
28 pusher's girl 
 
 herself in front of Helen.) I think a girl who could do 
 what you said just now — ^jest to pass away the time — is a — 
 shim ! 
 
 Helen {rising and backing off). What is that — a shim ? 
 
 Petunia (wiih increasing iieat, afid approaching Helen, 
 who rises'). A shim's a shingle that's no good. A girl like 
 that is jest fit fur the refuse heap, an' that's all ! She be- 
 longs in the bonfire at the end of the dump carrier ! {Fol- 
 lows Helen a step at a time during Jier acciisatio?i.) That's 
 where she belongs, an' that's where she'll git to ! She ain't 
 no better' n the man who goes around foolin' girls jest fur 
 his own fun ! 
 
 Helen. Petunia 
 
 Petunia. And do you know what I wish on to yeh ? I 
 wish that you have to marry a man that you don't care 
 nothin' about except fur his money ! And, meantime, I 
 pity the man ! 
 
 {Door L. opens and kmv^s appears tugging out Pride, seated 
 in his chair. Au^s puffing. ) 
 
 Ames. He's had his nap and his lunch, and he thinks he 
 wants to get out into the air again ! {As girls rush to help.) 
 Never — mind — 1 guess 1 can — make it. 
 
 Petunia {grasping one side of the chair ivith a jerk). I 
 guess I wouldn't everlastin'ly break my back, Lammie — {in 
 a hiss close to his ear) even fur love ! 
 
 Pride {stoppi?tg them up c). Wait a minute. You say 
 the men are all paid from the proceeds of the last carload, 
 and that there are two more cars on the siding being filled? 
 
 Ames {up l. c). Yes, Mr. Pride. You needn't fret 
 about the mill ; I think we can keep her running all right 
 until you get round again. 
 
 Helen {down l., sweetly). And it's all owing to your 
 management, Mr. Ames. 
 
 Pride {i?n patiently). He ought to exert himself.. If it 
 hadn't been for his detestable stairs I should have been at- 
 tending to the mill myself. Hasn't that man Busher come 
 back from the store yet ? 
 
 Ames. He hasn't had time to get to the store and back 
 yet unless he overdrives Stephen. 
 
 Pride. I sent him for arnica. Anything to get him and 
 his detestable old bottles of dope out of my sight i 
 
 Helen. Hsh-h-h-h ! 
 
BUSHER S GIRL IQ 
 
 Petunia {iip r.). Don't mind me; I've heard folks talk 
 like that before. I've got to go now. Mavv'll bepavvin' the 
 air fur the skillet. 
 
 (^Goes to door, up R. Sounds of rapid arrival outside, 
 Stephen being lashed to a wild finish by Busher.) 
 
 Ames. Hear that fool drive that mule ! 
 
 Petunia {cackling^. Hear Lanunie make poetry. 
 
 (^E liter Busher at door up r. c, loaded with packages. He 
 stumbles over skillet, staggers, catches himself^ growling 
 inaledictions under his breath.~) 
 
 Busher {^piling bundles on table ^ l., going back a7id pick- 
 ing up skillet^. Petunie, ain't you gone home yet with this 
 skillet? (^Coines dozvn c.) 
 
 Petunia. Oli, yes, I'm home, an' the skillet's on the 
 stove full of fryin' meat. 
 
 Busher. What in thunder you hangin' round Ames' 
 house for all the time? Ain't yeh got no pride, girl? 
 
 Helen (eagerly). Was there any mail, Mr. Busher? 
 
 Busher. Yes. 
 
 Pride. Letters? 
 
 Busher. No, a letter. 
 
 Helen (clasping and unclasping her fingers). Was — 
 was the — the letter for me, Mr. Busher ? 
 
 Busher {putting bottle on table, l. ). There's the ar- 
 nica (Goes back toivard door?) Whoa, Stephen! 
 
 (Returns to table, l.) And there's the plaster ; and there's 
 the rose-water (Puts articles on table.) 
 
 Helen (impatiently). The letter ! The letter, please ! 
 
 Busher (c, to Petunia). Go put that skillet into the 
 wagon. I'm goin' to drive over home with our things. 
 
 Petunia [up r., hopefully). Did yeh git maw's shoes? 
 
 Busher (coming do7vn r.). No, didn't have money 
 enough left. Got the merlasses and the tobacco. 
 
 (Petunja disappointed.) 
 
 Pride. Come, come — dig up the letter and get us out 
 of our suspense ! 
 
 (Busher, havins^ entirely unburdened himself, sits doivn near 
 table, R., deliberately puts hand in right coat pocket, then 
 left pocket, stretches right leg in order to seat ch right- 
 haiid pocket f then left the same ; looks dazed.) 
 
30 
 
 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 BusHER. Petunie, go see if I dropped that there letter in 
 the wagon. 
 
 {^Exit Petunia, door up r. Busher goes through pocket 
 business all over agaiii. ) 
 
 Pride. I think you might have used a little care ! 
 Helen. Abominable ! Can't you remember whether 
 the letter was for me or not ? 
 
 (^Enter Petunia, r. c.) 
 
 Petunia. 'Tain't in the wagon. 
 
 Pride. You had better drive the mule back along the 
 road. You will probably find the letter. 
 
 Busher. Well — after I've had my supper. 
 
 Helen. Then it will be too late ! Some one else will 
 have picked it up ! 
 
 (Petunia a7id Ames look out the door for the letter. Busher 
 takes off hat, leaving the letter i?i plaifi sight on the top 
 of his head while he wipes the inside of hat with hand- 
 kerchief.') 
 
 Busher. Funniest thing ! Pd 'a' sworn I put that let- 
 ter 
 
 (Helen, Petunia and Ames see the letter simultaneously. 
 They swoop down upon him. Business. Helen gets 
 letter, reads superscription.') 
 
 Helen. <'Mr. Lambert Ames"! Oh, Pm so disap- 
 pointed ! 
 
 Pride {with a groan). I was in hopes it was good news 
 from Houghton and Hall. 
 
 Ames. For me? it must be from Mary. {Coynes douni 
 C. , takes letter, gazes at it in bewilderment for some time. ) 
 It's from my Buffalo aunt. 
 
 Helen [down l. c). Your rich aunt? 
 
 Petunia {down r. c). I didn't know your aunt was a 
 buffalo. 
 
 Busher {down r.). If she has sent him money it's up to 
 him to treat, eh, Pride? {Adjusts glasses and peers over 
 Ames' shoulder.) it's from Buffalo, all right. 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 3 I 
 
 (BusHER goes to extreme R. Ames goes r. Sits in chair 
 vacated by Busher and deliberately takes out pocket-kfiife 
 with which to open letter. Petunia picks up skillet and 
 goes np c. Helen about to exit, l. Ames utifolds letter. 
 Busher still adjusting glasses and trying to read over 
 Ames' right shoulder. Pride nursing his bandages up c.) 
 
 Ames (^rising in sudden excitement). It's from my aunt ! 
 
 Pride (^hitching his chair down l. c). You told us that 
 before. 
 
 Ames. She's dead ! 
 
 Busher. Dead ! 
 
 Helen. How can it be from your aunt if she's 
 
 Ames {doivn r. c). She's left me two hundred thousand 
 dollars ! 
 
 (Petunia staggers against the door up c, ajid as she spreads 
 out her arms tile skillet clatters to the floor.) 
 
 PuiDE {^forgetting his breakages^ hobbles down L., shout- 
 ing). Two hundred thousand dollars ! Two hundred thou- 
 sand dollars ! 
 
 Helen {extreme l.). Oh, Mr. Ames, what good for- 
 tune ! How happy I am for you. 
 
 (Petunia takes a step or two down c.) 
 
 Ames. Thank you. I — can't — quite realize it yet. {Sud- 
 denly turns to Petunia.) Tunie, girl, Pm a rich man. 
 What do you think of that? {He holds out the letter to 
 her. Petunia takes it from him mechanically, then sud- 
 denly throws it fiercely on the floor , stamps o?i //, covers 
 her face with her hands, bursts into tears, and runs out up 
 R. c. Ames runs tip to door after her, calling.) Tunie ! 
 Tunie 1 
 
 (Helen laughs lightly.) 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
ACT III 
 
 SCENE. — Same as Act I. Cot bed R. instead of table 
 down L. 
 
 (Ames discovered sitting with feet stretched out in front of 
 hiniy hands in pockets and an unhappy scowl upon his 
 face. Enter Pride, up r. c, walki?ig with a cafie but 
 briskly?) 
 
 Pkide. Well, Lambert, I've just been down to the mill. 
 Everything going on splendidly. I see you have your rig 
 at the door; were you driving to the store? If so 1 should 
 like to ride down with you 
 
 Ames {eagerly'). All right, Mr. Pride, you take the mule, 
 and I won't have to go. 
 
 Pride. Certainly, if you wish, dear boy. Where is 
 Helen ? 
 
 Ames. She's up-stairs getting ready to go to the store. 
 
 Pride. Oh, you were intending to drive her down ? 
 
 Ames. No, 1 was intending to drive Stephen, but Miss 
 Pride was going with me. 
 
 Pride. Certainly ! Certainly, the drive will do you 
 good, and you can, if you will, do my errand. 
 
 Ames. 1 was only going to accommodate Miss Pride. I 
 didn't want to go. I've got some work to do out at the 
 hen-house — fix a window and make some new nest- boxes. 
 I've been neglecting my hens; they're not laying as they 
 should at this time of the year. 
 
 Pride. Suit yourself, Lambert, although I'm afraid a 
 certain young lady will be somewhat disappointed. And — 
 really, you know, it can't make very much difference to 
 you — now — whether the hens lay or not. A dozen eggs a 
 day is a small matter. In fact, you'll be selling your little 
 place here, I presume. 
 
 Ames. I don't know. Where should I go if I should 
 sell this place ? 
 
 Pride. Why, my dear fellow, you would go where you 
 could enjoy life — see something of the world and its ways. 
 You would go to Chicago — New York — Europe 
 
 32 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 33 
 
 Ames {impatiently). I see more life right here and now 
 than 1 can understand. 
 
 Pride. You must remember that a man with as much 
 money as you now have owes something to society. He 
 must make himself a place in the world ; build a reasonable 
 and decent home; marry a wife who is fitted by education 
 and bearing to grace such a home; he ought to dress like a 
 gendeman 
 
 Ames {i?iterruptiiig). Speaking of dress, Mr. Pride, did 
 you or your daughter see anything of my other boots? 
 When I bought these new ones yesterday I thought I left 
 the old ones in the house here somewhere. 
 
 Pride. You did. You left them sprawling on a chair. 
 Helen picked them up when she was tidying the room and 
 asked me to put them away. I knew you would never use 
 them any more, so I carried them down and threw them on 
 the refuse heap 
 
 Ames. To burn up ? Perfectly good boots ? Why, 
 there was a year's wear in those boots ! 
 
 {Takes hat frotn nail and starts for door.) 
 
 Pride {apologetically). Awfully sorry, Lambert. I 
 wouldn't for the world have meddled with your belongings 
 if I had dreamed you would ever want the boots again. But 
 I sort of considered them — your chrysalis, so to speak. 
 
 Ames {repressing his anger). Oh, well — never mind. 
 It's all right. Maybe you didn't get them into the fire. 
 I'll go right away and see if there's anything left of them. 
 
 {Exit up R. c. As he goes out Helen opens stair door. 
 Is discovered on third step from bottom coming down 
 backwards.) 
 
 m^iMiSi {reaching floor). Horrible stairs ! {Looks about.) 
 I'm ready at last. Oh, you here, papa ? Where is Lambert ? 
 
 Pride. Gone to look after his chrysalis. His butterfly 
 wings don't seem to be drying out and unfolding to any 
 great extent. Well, what progress have you made? You've 
 had a week. You should have been engaged by this time. 
 Are you going to let him slip through your fingers, as you 
 did old Shockton ? 
 
 Helen. I can't force him to engage himself to me, 
 can 1 ? {Abnost weeping.) 
 
34 
 
 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 Pride. You didn't seem to have any trouble fascinating 
 him when he was poor. You wept on his shoulder, I re- 
 member. I tell you, Helen, we must get hold of some of 
 this money ! 
 
 Helen {down l. c). You've already gotten hold of some 
 of it, haven't you? Hasn't he promised to finance the 
 shingle mill ? 
 
 Pride {dowfi l.). Rot! What does that amount to? 
 We want the fortune in the family ! Hasn't he melted 
 toward you at all ? 
 
 Helen. Not to speak of. He lets me call him Lambert. 
 
 Pride. Exceedingly condescending ! And he calls you 
 Helen, 1 presume ? 
 
 Helen. No, he prefers to call me Miss Pride. Some- 
 times I think he's in love with that girl of Busher's. 
 
 Pride. Possible, but not probable. {Knock at door 
 up R. c.) Come in. 
 
 {^Enier Bvsher,* carrying a sizable bundle done up in 
 newspaper.) 
 
 BusHER. I should like to speak to Mr. Lambert Ames. 
 
 Pride {brusquely). Well, you see, I presume that he 
 isn't here. 
 
 Busher. He can't be very far away ; I see his mule 
 hitched out here. 
 
 Pride. My daughter and I are about to drive down to 
 the store. 
 
 Busher {coming down r.). Taking your pleasure rides 
 and your good times with no thought of other people's 
 sorrows ! 
 
 Helen. Dear me, Mr. Busher, what is the matter ? 
 
 Busher {melodramatically'). Can a father stand by an' 
 see his own chi-e-ld chr-r-u-shed to earth, never to rise again, 
 yet say nothing? {To Pride.) I ask you — you who are 
 yourself a parent — can he? 
 
 PuiDfc; (briskly). I don't catch your drift. 
 
 Busher. My daughter is a broken-hearted maiden, sir ! 
 And this young two-hundred-thousand-dollar gentleman is 
 the breaker ! The proof of his perfidy is right there in this 
 bundle, sir ! Yes, sir ! In this here bundle, sir ! I'm 
 a-gonto sue him fur — ah — ah — alienatin' the affections of my 
 girl, sir ! He's a deep-dyed villain an' Pm a-gonto prove 
 it in a court of law ! 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 35 
 
 Pride. Nonsense, Busher, don't make a fool of yourself. 
 You can't do anything with Ames. He has money, and 
 you haven't. And, besides, can't you see, Busher, that the 
 fact of Ames coming into this fortune makes any thought of 
 marriage with your girl impossible? Ames must choose a 
 wife who will be a credit to him. 
 
 Busher. He must, must he? Very well, then he must 
 pay fur the privilege ! 
 
 Pride {to Helen). Did you ever know of Ames making 
 love to this girl ? 
 
 Helen. 1 never knew of his making love to any girl. I 
 don't think he is capable of making love. 
 
 Busher. He has engaged my daughter's affections, an* 
 I have the proof right there in that bundle. And to think 
 how I've been a father to those Ames children, both Mary 
 an' Lambert ! I've doctored 'em in sickness and in health ! 
 Through my ministrations neither one of 'em has ever had a 
 wart — and now in my old age an' penury — and them with 
 two hundred thousand dollars — an' livin' in the best house 
 in the neighborhood, a house that I designed 
 
 Helen. Did you design the stairs, Mr. Busher ? 
 
 Busher. I did. 
 
 Helen. For pity's sake why did you make them so per- 
 pendicular, and with such horrid shallow treads ? 
 
 Busher. Madam, you see if I hadn't made the stairs 
 straight up and down with narrow treads they would have 
 stuck out of that upper window about eight feet. Then when 
 you got to the top of the stairs instead of bein' on your way 
 to bed you'd 'a' found yourself outdoors in the upper 
 branches of an apple tree. See ? It takes a good deal of 
 practical skill to design stairs, let me tell yeh. Yes, I de- 
 signed them stairs, and now look what pay I'm gittin' for it ! 
 
 Pride. I don't think anything which could possibly hap- 
 pen to you would pay you for having built that flight of 
 stairs ! They can't really be called a flight of stairs ; they're 
 a shot of stairs ! Come, Helen, if we are going to the store 
 we must start. 
 
 {Enter Ames, 7ip r. c.) 
 
 Ames (over his shoulder). Whoa, Stephen ! Behave 
 yourself! (7> Pride.) He's — getting pretty restless, Mr. 
 Pride. (^Comes dow?i c.) . He always did hate waiting at 
 a hitching-post. (^Exit up r. c, Pride and Helen, she 
 
^6 busher's girl 
 
 with a wi7i7ii7ig backiuard smile at Ames.) I think I'd bet- 
 ter see you under way. 
 
 (^Exit up R. c, after Pride and Helen. Busher goes l., 
 strikes attitude^ clears his throat, a?id begins his re- 
 hearsal.') 
 
 Busher. I have come for an explanation ! {The begins 
 fling does not suit him. Puts bundle under other arm, clears 
 throat again, assumes t/ireatening attitude. Relinquishes 
 it to change position of his feet. Begins again.) 1 have 
 come to demand justice for my wronged child ! 
 
 (^Is pleased with the phrasing, repeats the sente?ice.) 
 
 {Enter Ames, who looks eagerly about the room.) 
 
 Ames. Who are you talking to, Busher? I thought 
 Tunie was here. Where is she, Busher? I haven't had a 
 slant at her since the blow fell. 
 
 Busher {business with attitude and getting butidlejust 
 right). I have come to demand justice 
 
 Ames. Sit down, sit down, Jim ; you never could talk 
 standing up. What's the idea? And before you begin I 
 want to ask again what's become of Tunie? I'm homesick 
 to see her. I've been over to your house four times, but she 
 has always been away 
 
 Busher. You're a good one to talk about my girl — after 
 breakin' her heart 
 
 Ames {coming down c). What are you raving about 
 now? 
 
 Busher. You've broken her heart ! 
 
 Ames. I? 
 
 Busher. Yes, sir, you ! an' you're a-gonto pay for it in 
 the law courts ! Understand you'll find out that you can't 
 trifle with a young girl's feelin's, an' then because you git a 
 little money run off an' marry the mill boss's daughter ! No, 
 sir ! Not with old Doc. Busher at the saw ! 
 
 Ames. Who said I was going to marry the boss's 
 daughter? 
 
 Busher. Everybody says so. 
 
 Ames. Well, everybody's mistaken — I'm not. (Busher 
 rises.) Sit down ! Sit down ! You can't think standing 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 37 
 
 up. (BusHER sifSj L.) Now, what's to pay about Tunie ? 
 I want to see Tunie; there are two or three things I want to 
 tell her 
 
 BusHER. You'll never see Petunie Busher again ! She's 
 gone to the city to work out ! 
 
 Ames (eagerly). Did she say it was on my account? 
 
 Busher. No, she said it was on my account. She said 
 she an' her maw an' the children didn't have enough to eat, 
 but that of course was an excuse 
 
 Ames. Did she mention me at all ? 
 
 Busher (j-ising). She did. 
 
 Ames {savagely). Sit down, I tell you, and give me the 
 whole output. What did Tunie say about me? 
 
 (Busher sits, l.) 
 
 Busher. Said she couldn't bear the sight of you, 
 but 
 
 Ames. Just as I expected. What brought out the re- 
 mark? I suppose you were urging her to make up to me 
 now that I have money ! 
 
 Busher. 1 merely said 
 
 Ames. Never mind — I see it all ! You've just naturally 
 disgusted the girl with your tommyrot ! Tunie's not the 
 girl to hanker after a fellow's money — nor after the fellow 
 himself 
 
 Busher. Petunie is passionately in love with you ! 
 
 Ames. Eh? If you can prove that I'll marry her by 
 force ! I like Tunie better than anybody on earth 
 
 Busher (^Jubilant, Jumping up and coming toward Amy^s, 
 who wards him off). My dear boy 
 
 Ames. Keep off! Keep off! There is only one im- 
 provement 1 could ask for in Tunie — if 1 am to marry 
 her 
 
 Busher. What's that, Lambert ? What improvement is 
 that? By gracious, it shall be made. I'll see to it myself! 
 
 Ames. Tunie would be about perfect in my eyes if she 
 was an orphan on her father's side. 
 
 Busher. Ha, ha ! You will have your joke, won't you ? 
 
 Ames. I'm not joking; but goon with your story. How 
 do you know Tunie cares for me? 
 
 Busher. Well, first thing I knew Petunie had her bag 
 packed and was going. 1 tried to stop her, but it was no 
 
38 busker's girl 
 
 go ; she had the skids under her for the city. I says, " You 
 big dummy, to blow just as a millionaire has broke out in 
 the neighborhood." 1 says, ** What's a-taking you, any- 
 how ? " 1 says, ** Why don't you have a whack at marrying 
 Lambert Ames ' ' 
 
 Ames. And I know just exactly what she said. She said 
 she wouldn't marry me if 1 were hung ten feet thick with 
 diamonds, — I've heard that before — and I don't believe she 
 would, either ! 
 
 BusHER (fising). Well, she did say something of that 
 sort, but — she packed a love token of yourn with her 
 things. {Puts bundle Ofi table, L., afid beghis to untie it.) 
 I opened her baggage to see what she had in it to make it 
 bulge so 
 
 Ames. A love token? Something I had given her? 
 
 BusHER {still struggling with the string around the 
 bundle). No, something she found. I went down to the 
 refuse burner yes't'dy and there I found a perfectly good 
 pair of boots, an' I picked 'em up an' took 'em home. 
 
 (^He draws the boots from the paper and holds them up.) 
 
 Ames. Tunie was carrying off my boots ? 
 
 BusHER. To remember you by. 
 
 Ames {taking the boots). Bless her heart ! Busher, do 
 you honestly think she cares for me that way? 
 
 Busher {delightedly). Certainly she does. 
 
 Ames. Why in thunder, then, did she always make out 
 she didn't care a whoop for me ? 
 
 Busher. Lambert, you don't know much about the 
 female sect. I've had Julia tell me to my face that she 
 wished to God she'd never married me ! 
 
 Ames {putting boots under the cot, r.). Where is Tunie 
 now? 
 
 Busher. Down to the mill waitin' for the loggin' train 
 to come up. 
 
 Ames {starting for the door). I want to talk with 
 her 
 
 Busher {catching him by the coat-tails). Hold back ! 
 Whoa ! She won't hsten to a two-hundred-thousand-dollar 
 gink ! Petunie's got to be approached, not through pride 
 or avarice, but through sympathy — see ? Now, if you can 
 manage to fall down-stairs an' break your leg — dislocate 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 39 
 
 your shoulder as old Pride did — knock out your teeth, bung 
 out one eye 
 
 {h.UKS Jerks a sheet from cot- bed a?id begins to tear it into 
 bandages. Thrusts strips ifito Busker's hands.) 
 
 Ames. Ail right. Here, tie me up, and be quick about 
 
 it ! Then run to the mill {Looks at watch.) Twenty 
 
 minutes before the logging train is due ! {Takes off coat.) 
 Tell Tunie I've lost all my money 
 
 (Busker begins turnirig Ames into a pitiable wreck. Band- 
 ages headf leg, arm ifi slings etc. Ames lies on cot, k.) 
 
 {Enter Pride and Helen, the former carrying the mail, 
 packages, etc.) 
 
 Helen {in alarm). Good heavens — what is the matter ? 
 
 {Runs to Ames. Busker wards her off.) 
 
 Busker. Keep away ! Don't excite him ! There's been 
 a horrible accident — fell down-stairs — smashed himself to 
 flinders ! One leg's got to come off, and I don't know but 
 both ! 
 
 (Ames groans.) 
 
 Helen. Horrors ! 
 
 Busker. Yes, that's what I say — horrors — but it can't 
 be helped now ! 
 
 Pride {coming down l., and throwing mail on table). 
 Those confounded stairs again ! 
 
 Busker {crossing l. and picking up letter from table). 
 What's this, a letter for Lambert? I'll have to read it. 
 ( Goes R., breaks seal, reads.) Great Catacombs ! Trouble 
 never comes singly ! There's been a mistake ! The — er — 
 old lady left all the money to Lambert's cousin instead of to 
 Lambert ! Similarity of names caused the mistake — lawyers 
 got the name mixed ! Be ca'm, Lambert, my boy — be 
 ca'm ! {As Helen turns to her father, Busker kicks 
 Ames.) Groan or something ! You're just maimed and 
 beggared — you ain't dead ! (Ames groans.) Mr. Pride, 
 would you be willing to drive the mule down to the mill 
 after my girl, Petunie ? 
 
 Pride {arrogantly). I've been errand boy for this estab- 
 lishment quite enough for one day. I have some business 
 
40 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 of my own to attend to. What's the imperative need for 
 your daughter's presence, anyway ? 
 
 Helen. I'll go. 
 
 Pride. You'll do nothing of the sort ! You couldn't 
 drive that mule. You know how he acted just now on the 
 way home. 
 
 Helen. I'll go on foot for Petunia, then. We must 
 certainly have some one to help do the work here now — 
 with another wreck in the house. 
 
 (Ames groans. Exit Helen, up r. c.) 
 
 Busher. Have you unharnessed Stephen ? 
 
 Pride. No, and what's more, I don't intend to unhar- 
 ness Stephen. I shall need what few brains I have to run 
 the shingle mill now that Ames is off the turf, {Goes up r., 
 hangs up coat and hat a?id goes to cupboard up c. Searches 
 shelves i high and low, hungrily^) 1 wish some one would 
 do a little cooking in this house. I'm as hungry as a wolf ! 
 
 Ames {Jiopefully). Tunie will slap up some biscuit when 
 
 she comes. I'm starved myself (Busher kicks him 
 
 on the side and Ames adds hastily.) It's the death appe- 
 tite, I'm afraid. 
 
 Busher (to Pride). You'd better bring in an armful of 
 wood and git the fire under way against Petunie's coming. 
 
 Pride (^glaring at hini). I'll go hungry first ! 
 
 ( Comes down l. ) 
 
 Busher. All right, go hungry, then. It serves you 
 right. If there's anything I despise it's laziness ! 
 
 (^Au^s snickers. 'Qxjsb.^'r pinches him; he groans. Petunia 
 comes flying in up r. c. followed by Helen.) 
 
 Petunia {rushing to Ames). Why, Lammie, you poor 
 old Siwash, what luck you're a-havin' ! Ain't it rotten? 
 
 (Helen co7nes down l. c.) 
 
 Ames {groaning). I don't know what's to become of 
 me, Tunie — nobody to care whether I live or die ! 
 
 (Busher goes up c.) 
 
 Petunia. Awh, now you're away out in the brush ! I 
 care, and I'm goin' to stand right by with the cant-hook ! 
 You git me? {Sits on floor by Ames.) 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 41 
 
 Ames. Tunie, you can't take care of me unless 
 
 Petunia. Unless what, Lammie? 
 
 Ames. Unless we are married. 
 
 BusHER {briskly). What d'yeh say, Petunie? You say 
 yes, of course. (^Cornes down r. c. to her.) You must be 
 careful — any sudden jar or disappomtment 
 
 Petunia (rising). What — me in the holy bonds of pad- 
 lock? Oh, 1 can't — I won't. 1 said 1 wouldn't. Are you 
 dead sure, Lammie, that you want to marry me ? 
 
 Ames. Oh, dead sure, Tunie. So sure that when I was 
 in town the other day 1 got a marriage license for you and 
 me, hoping something lucky might turn up, and you see it 
 has. 
 
 (JSits tip and starts to put hand iti pocket ; Busher restrains 
 
 him.) 
 
 Busher. Don't do that ! Don't do that — d'want to 
 break your arm right off? Here, let me git it. 
 
 (^Fishes in Ames' pocket, produces paper ^ which he exaf?iines 
 ivith deli gilt.) 
 
 Ames. As I told your fatlier when I asked him if I might 
 speak to you, I'm perfectly sure about wishing to be a hus- 
 band. The thing which stuck in my craw was being a — 
 ha ! — forgive me, Tunie — a son-in-law ! 
 
 Petunia. Yes — well — that's just it. I ain't no hand to 
 go back on my kin. You'd have to be a son-in-law to paw 
 and brother-in-law to the boys, and to Lily, Ann, Renie, 
 Tote, Louise an' Nancy. No, sir. It would make yours 
 truly do some swift skatin' 'round to support the hull bunch. 
 
 Ames. Don't you think you can do it, Tunie? Please. 
 
 Petunia. Oh, 1 could do it. I'm a tough little cayuse. 
 I guess under the whup I could start the load. I suppose I 
 could git some washin' to take in — to do while I'm restin', 
 you know. Oh, I could do it — but will I ? 
 
 Busher. Aw, quit yer foolin', Petunie. As Justice of 
 the Peace, I'll marry you myself. I'll git yer maw. 
 
 {Starts for door, but stops when Helen speaks.) 
 
 Helen (l. c). Really, you'd better take him, Petunia, 
 and I might as well tell you now I am going to be married 
 soon myself. 
 
42 BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 Petunia. What ! 
 
 Pride {doivn l.). Helen, what do you mean? 
 
 Helen. Yes, papa, I got the letter to-day. 
 
 Petunia {standing near cot, r.). Oh, dear me, that 
 rich old soak? Don't yeh do it ! I wished it on yeh, but I 
 take it back. I do. If you must get married, — marry for 
 love. 
 
 Helen. That's exactly what I'm goin* to do. You 
 hear, father ? Harold Lamar is poor, but he wants me, and 
 I'm going to marry him in spite of everybody. 
 
 Petunia {going /^ Helen). Good girl. {Kisses her.) 
 That's the talk. If I loved a man, an' he loved me, nothin' 
 could come between us — nothin*. 
 
 Ames. Tunie. 
 
 Petunia {her face turned away from hiffi). What? 
 
 (Ames draivs the boots fro?n under the cot and holds them up.) 
 
 Ames. Tunie, look here. 
 (Petunia turns and sees the boots. She rushes to seize them . ) 
 
 Petunia. Why, Lammie Ames, where'd you git them 
 boots ? I 
 
 Ames {drawi?ig her down beside the cot). Oh, Tunie, 
 Tunie, can you still say you don't love me? 
 
 Petunia. Yes. {He draws her closer to him.') No. 
 Oh, Lammie Ames, you good-for-nothin' 
 
 {She buries her face on his shoulder.) 
 
 Ames. Well, I guess that's settled, then. 
 
 BusHER. Hurray ! I'll go over now an' git Julia and 
 the children. We'll all move right in with you, I think, 
 Lambert. 
 
 (Ames shakes his head, laughing. Exit Busher up r. c.) 
 
 Ames. We'll see about that. (71? Pride.) Has Stephen 
 been unhitched and fed? 
 
 Pride. Not being stable boy, I can't say. 
 
 Petunia {rising). I'll see to Stephen, Lammie. Now 
 don't git your blood all het up. 
 
 Ames. No, you won't. You're not Busher' s girl now. 
 You're my girl. {Springs up suddenly, goes l., and grasps 
 Vyxvd^ by the back of the collar.) You old rascal ! {Girls 
 
BUSHER S GIRL 
 
 43 
 
 both cry out,) There, I toted you in and dragged you out 
 when you were all broken up, and now when I've had the 
 same misfortune you stand on your dignity and let a poor 
 old faithful animal go without his feed and water ! {Drags 
 him to door up R. c, opens it a?id heaves him out.) Now 
 you unhitch that mule and feed him ! 1 think I'm going to 
 be well enough to tend to the hens and the dog myself! 
 
 Petunia {down r., indignantiy). Lammie Ames, you 
 old water-soaked cull ! You been lyin' to me ? 
 
 Ames (cojning down R. c. and throwing off bandages). 
 No, Tunie, your father understands that business better 
 than I. He did the lying for me. 
 
 Helen (l.). And haven't you lost your money after all ? 
 
 Ames {down r. c, grinning sheepishly at her as he un- 
 winds his bandages). My — er — money? 
 
 Petunia. Ain't yeh, Lammie? Ain't yeh? You own 
 up, now ! 
 
 Ames. We shall have enough left for a few luxuries. 
 For instance, we'll carpet the stairs, and let Cat-Betsy keep 
 all her kittens 
 
 (^Back door opens to admit Busher, three or four boys, 
 Lily, Ann, Renie, Tote, Louise atid Nancy, and Mrs. 
 Busher beariftg a baby in her arms. Each Busher bears 
 some article of household furniture, the more bulky and 
 ridiculous the better. They fill the stage, Ames, laugh' 
 ing, takes Petunia iti his arms and kisses her,) 
 
 curtain 
 
Unusually Good Entertainments 
 
 Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
 Your Next Program 
 
 GRADUATION DAY AT W^OOD HILL SCHOOL. 
 An Entertainment in Two Acts, by Ward Macauley. For six 
 males and four females, with several minor parts. Time of 
 playing, two hours. Modern costumes. Simple interior scenes; 
 may be presented in a hail without scenery. The unusual com- 
 bination of a real "entertainment," including music, recitations, 
 etc., with an interesting love story. The graduation exercises 
 include short speeches, recitations, songs, funny interruptions, 
 and a comical speech by a country school trustee. Price, 15 
 cents. 
 
 EXAMINATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOL. 
 
 An Entertainment in One Act, by Ward Macauley. Eight male 
 and six female characters, with minor parts. Plays one hour. 
 Scene, an easy interior, or may be given without scenery. Cos- 
 tumes, modern. Miss Marks, the teacher, refuses to marry a 
 trustee, who threatens to discharge her. The examination in- 
 cludes recitations and songs, and brings out many funny answers 
 to questions. At the close Robert Coleman, an old lover, claims 
 the teacher. Very easy and very effective. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 BACK TO THE COUNTRY STORE. A Rural Enter- 
 tainment in Three Acts, by Ward Macauley. For four male 
 and five female characters, with some supers. Time, two hours. 
 Two scenes, both easy interiors. Can be played effectively with- 
 out scenery. Costumes, modern. All the principal parts are 
 sure hits. Quigley Higginbotham, known as "Quig," a clerk in 
 a country store, aspires to be a great author or singer and 
 decides to try his fortunes in New York. The last scene is in 
 Quig's home. He returns a failure but is offered a partnership 
 in the country store. He pops the question in the midst of a 
 surprise party given in his honor. Easy to do and very funny. 
 Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE DISTRICT CONVENTION. A Farcical Sketch 
 in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For eleven males and one 
 female, or twelve males. Any number of other parts or super- 
 numeraries may be added. Plays forty-five minutes. No special 
 scenery is required, and the costumes and properties are all 
 easy. The play shows an uproarious political nominating con- 
 vention. The climax comes when a woman's rights cham- 
 pion, captures the convention. There is a great chance to bur- 
 lesque modern politics and to work in local gags. Every 
 part will make a hit. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 SI SLOCUM'S COUNTRY STORE. An Entertainment 
 in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eleven male and five female 
 characters with supernumeraries. Several parts may be doubled. 
 Plays one hour. Interior scene, or may be played without set 
 scenery. Costumes, modern. The rehearsal for an entertain- 
 ment in the village church gives plenty of opportunity for 
 specialty work. A very jolly entertainment of the sort adapted 
 to almost any place or occasion. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
Unusually Good Eotertainments 
 
 Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
 Your Next Program 
 
 A SURPRISE PARTY AT BRINKLEY'S. An En- 
 tertainment in One Scene, by Ward Macauley. Seven male and 
 seven female characters. Interior scene, or may be given with- 
 out scenery. Costumes, modern. Time, one hour. By the 
 author of the popular successes, "Graduation Day at Wood Hill 
 School," "Back to the Country Store," etc. The villagers have 
 planned a birthday surprise party for Mary Brinkley, recently 
 graduated from college. They all join in jolly games, songs, 
 conundrums, etc., and Mary becomes engaged, vi'hich surprises 
 the surprisers. The entertainment is a sure success. Price, 15 centSv 
 
 JONES VS. JINKS. A Mock Trial in One Act, by 
 Edward Mumford. Fifteen male and six female characters, with 
 supernumeraries if desired. May be played all male. Many of the 
 parts (members of the jury, etc.) are small. Scene, a simple 
 interior ; may be played without scenery. Costumes, modern. 
 Time of playing, one hour. This mock trial has many novel 
 features, unusual characters and quick action. Nearly every 
 character has a funny entrance and laughable lines. There are 
 many rich parts, and fast fun throughout. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE SIGHT-SEEING CAR. A Comedy Sketch in One 
 Act, by Ernest M. Gould. For seven males, two females, or 
 may be all male. Parts may be doubled, with quick changes, so 
 that four persons may play the sketch. Time, forty-five minutes. 
 Simple street scene. Costumes, modern. The superintendent 
 of a sight-seeing automobile engages two men to run the 
 machine. A Jew, a farmer, a fat lady and other humorous 
 characters give them all kinds of trouble. This is a regular gat- 
 ling-gun stream of rollicking repartee. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE CASE OF SMYTHE VS. SMITH. An Original 
 Mock Trial in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eighteen males 
 and two females, or may be all male. Plays about one hour. 
 Scene, a county courtroom ; requires no scenery ; may be played 
 in an ordinary hall. Costumes, modern. This entertainment is 
 nearly perfect of its kind, and a sure success. It can be easily 
 produced in any place or on any occasion, and provides almost 
 any number of good parts. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE OLD MAIDS' ASSOCIATION. A Farcical Enter- 
 tainment in One Act, by Louise Latham Wilson. For thirteen 
 females and one 'male. The male part may be played by a 
 female, and the number of characters increased to twenty or 
 more. Time, forty minutes. The play requires neither scenery 
 nor properties, and very little in the way of costumes. Can 
 easily be prepared in one or two rehearsals. Price, 25 cents. 
 
 BARGAIN DAY AT BI^OOMSTEIN'S. A Farcical 
 Entertainment in One Act, by Edvv'ard Mumford. For five males 
 and ten females, with supers. Interior scene. Costumes, mod- 
 ern. Time, thirty minutes. The characters and the situations 
 which arise from their endeavors to buy and sell make rapid-fire 
 fun from start to finish. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
Successful Plays for All Girls 
 
 In Selecting Your Next Play Do Not Overlook This List 
 
 YOUNG DOCTOR DEVINE. A Farce in Two Acts, 
 by Mrs. E. J. H. Goodfellow. One of the most popular 
 plays for girls. For nine female characters. Time in 
 playing, thirty minutes. Scenery, ordinary interior. Mod- 
 ern costumes. Girls in a boarding-school, learning that a 
 young doctor is coming to vaccinate all the pupils, eagerly con- 
 sult each other as to the manner of fascinating the physician. 
 When the doctor appears upon the scene the pupils discover that 
 the physician is a female practitioner. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 SISTER MASONS. A Burlesque in One Act, by Frank 
 DuMONT. For eleven females. Time, thirty minutes. Costumes, 
 fantastic gowns, or dominoes. Scene, interior. A grand expose 
 of Masonry. Some women profess to learn the secrets of a 
 Masonic lodge by hearing their husbands talk in their sleep, 
 and they institute a similar organization. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 A COMMANDING POSITION. A Farcical Enter- 
 tainment, by Amelia Sanford. For seven female char- 
 acters and ten or more other ladies and children. Time, one 
 hour. Costumes, modern. Scenes, easy interiors and one street 
 scene. Marian Young gets tired living with her aunt, Miss 
 Skinflint. She decides to "attain a commanding position." 
 Marian tries hospital nursing, college settlement work and 
 school teaching, but decides to go back to housework. Price, 15 
 cents. 
 
 HOW A WOMAN KEEPS A SECRET. A Comedy 
 in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For ten female characters. 
 Time, half an hour. Scene, an easy interior. Costumes, modern. 
 Mabel Sweetly has just become engaged to Harold, but it's "the 
 deepest kind of a secret." Before announcing it they must win 
 the approval of Harold's uncle, now in Europe, or lose a possible 
 ten thousand a year. At a tea Mabel meets her dearest friend. 
 Maude sees Mabel has a secret, she coaxes and Mabel tells her. 
 But Maude lets out the secret in a few minutes to another 
 friend and so the secret travels. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE OXFORD AFFAIR. A Comedy in Three Acts, 
 by Josephine H. Cobb and Jennie E. Paine. For eight female 
 characters. Plays one hour and three-quarters. Scenes, inter- 
 iors at a seaside hotel. Costumes, modern. The action of the 
 play is located at a summer resort. Alice Graham, in order to 
 chaperon herself, poses as a widow, and Miss Oxford first claims 
 her as a sister-in-law, then denounces her. The onerous duties 
 of Miss Oxford, who attempts to serve as chaperon to Miss 
 Howe and Miss Ashton in the face of many obstacles, furnish 
 an evening of rare enjoyment. Price 15 cents. 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 The Power of E 
 
 Expression and efficiency go hand in ] q gic 703 030 
 
 The power of clear and forceful expression brings confi- 
 dence and poise at all times — in private gatherings, in public 
 discussion, in society, in business. 
 
 It is an invaluable asset to any man or woman. It can often 
 be turned into money, but it is always a real joy. 
 
 In learning to express thought, we learn to command 
 thought itself, and thought is power. You can have this 
 power if you will. 
 
 Whoever has the power of clear expression is always sure 
 of himself. 
 
 The power of expression leads to: 
 
 The ability to think "on your feet'* 
 
 Successful public speaking 
 
 Effective recitals 
 
 The mastery over other minds 
 
 Social prominence 
 
 Business success 
 
 Efficiency in any undertaking 
 
 Are these things worth while? 
 
 They are all successfully taught at The National School of 
 Elocution and Oratory, which during many years has de- 
 veloped this power in hundreds of men and women. 
 
 A catalogue giving full information as to how any of these 
 accomplishments may be attained will be sent free on request. 
 
 THE NATIONAL SCHOOL OF 
 ELOCUTION AND ORATORY 
 
 Parkway Building Philadelphia