:• ^. 'oK "^ r- •?^. I B ^enhoni^ (Royalty Vlayi H Jifty'^ifty "Jrederick Q.Johnion T. S. Tfenhon & Company ^ublhher^ • Chicago ^rice 50 Cent:s Plays for Schools and Colleges AARON BOGGS, FRESHMAN By Walter Ben Hare. Comedy in 3 acts; 8 males, 8 females. Time, 2% liours. Price, 35 Cents. AFTER THE GAME By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 2 acts; 1 male, 9 females. Time, IV4, hours. Price, 25 Cents. ALL A MISTAKE By W. C. Parker. Farce-comedy in 3 acts; 4 males, 4 females. Time, 2 hours. Price, 35 Cents. ALL ON ACCOUNT OF POLLY By Harry L. Newton. Comedy in 3 acts; 6 males, 10 females. Time, 2i/4. hours. Price, 35 Cents. AS A WOMAN THINKETH By Edith F. A. U. Palnton. Comedy in 3 acts; 9 males, 7 females. Time, 2i/^ hours. Price, 35 Cents. AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 3 acts; 6 males, 14 fe- males. Time, 2^4 hours. Price, 35 Cents. THE CLASS SHIP By Edith F. A. U. Pafnton. Commencement play- let; 3 males, 8 females. T.me, 35 minutes. Price, 25 Cents. CLUBBING A HUSBAND By Edith F. A. U. Palnton. Comedy in 3 acts: 12 fe- males. Time. 2 hours. Price, 35 Cents. A COLLEGE TOWN By Walter Ben Hare. Farce-comedy in 3 acts; 9 males, 8 females. Time, 2Vi hours. Price, 35 Cents. THE DEACON ENTANGLED By Harry Osborne. Comedy in 3 acts; 6 males, 4 fe- males. Time, 2 hours. Price, 35 Cents. AN EARLY BIRD By Walter B. Hare. Comedy in 3 acts; 7 males, 7 fe- males. Time, 2^^ hours. Price, 35 Cents. THE FIFTEENTH OF JANUARY By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 3 acts; 11 males, 10 females. Time, 2^^ hours. Price, 35 Cents. THE GRADUATE'S CHOICE By Edith F. A. U. Painton. Commencement playlet; 12 females. Time, 35 minutes. Price, 25 Cents. T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO FIFTY-FIFTY FIFTY-FIFTY A Three -Act Farce of Love, Luck and Laughter BY Frederick G. Johnson AUTHOR OF Mary's Millions," "Civilizing Susie/' "Foiled, By Heck!" "The Fun Revue," "Gimme Them Papers!" "It Might Happen," etc. CHICAGO T. S. DENISON & COMPANY Publishers Please Read Carefully HE PROFESSIONAL STAGE-RIGHTS in this play are strictly reserved and all applications for its use should be addressed to the publishers. Amateurs may obtain permission to produce it on payment of a fee of fifteen dollars ($15.00) for each performance, in advance. Correspondence on this subject should be ad- dressed to T. S. Denison & Company, 623 S. Wabash Ave., Chicago, 111. n n Attention is called to the penalties provided by the Copyright Law of the United States of America in force July I, 1909, for any infringement of the owner's rights, as follows: Sec. 28. That any person who wilfully and for profit shall infringe any copyright secured by this Act, or who shall know- ingly and wilfully aid or abet such infringement, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction thereof shall be punished by imprisonment for not exceeding one year or by a fine of not less than one hundred dollars nor more than one thousand dollars, or both, in the discretion of the court. n n COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY T. S. DENISON & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED DEC -5 71 FIFTY-FIFTY FOR FIVE MEN AND FIVE WOMEN THE PEOPLE IN IT (As We Meet Them) Henry Brown An Artist Paul Green An Author Patrick O'Malley A Janitor Mrs. Podge A Landlady Sophie Bland A Dancer May Dexter An Enthusiast Mrs. Hawley A Collector Smudge '. A Valet Cap' A Wanderer Josephine A Seeker Time: The present Place; New York City, and the Adirondack Mountains. Synopsis of Scenes Act I. The pals' studio in a New York lodging house, one morning. Act II. The same, a week later. Act III. The pals* bungalow in the Adirondack Mountains, one afternoon a month later. Time of Playing — About two hours and a quarter. 5 FIFTY-FIFTY COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS Henry — A sprightly young fellow, good-looking and likeable. Fast talker and quick in action. Optimistic as a rule, but sometimes inclined to look at things gloomily. Quick tempered, and just as quick to make up. Act I, old lounging-robe, flannel shirt, dilapidated house slip- pers. Act II, neat, stylish clothes. Act III, sports outfit, such as flannel or palm beach. Paul — Almost a counterpart of Henry, but less in- , clined to be serious. The pals' devotion to each other is a thing that is felt rather than shown. It underlies even their quarrels, which you have a feeling are never more than half in earnest. Act I, much-worn business suit, turndown collar, flowing black tie. Act II, modish busi- ness suit. In the second act the pals may well have new suits of contrasting colors, such as blue and gray or blue and brown, or whatever the favored tones happen to be. Act III, outing clothes. The pals' costumes should be sufficiently contrasted rather than twin-like. O'Malley — Irish character part, middle-aged or elderly. Worn overalls and cloth cap, or worn working clothes, such as a furnace-man might wear. (If desired, he may "double" for Cap^ in Act III.) Mrs. Podge — A comely widow of about forty. Very stolid, with no sense of humor. Neatly but plainly dressed as befits her occupation. Sophie — A sweet, lovable girl of about twenty. Wears appropriate gowns throughout. Spanish dancing- girl's costume in Act II. May — A little older than Sophie, and a bit more breezy in type. Appropriate costumes throughout. As "Roxana" in Act III, outlandish old-maid disguise that FIFTY-FIFTY can oe thrown aside easily; "rubber-tired" spectacles, loud bonnet with false curls attached. Mrs. Hawley — A society matron of about forty, with a touch of the parvenue. Somewhat haughty and conde- scending. Dresses stylishly. Carries lorgnette. (If de- sired, either she or Mrs. Podge can "double" for Jose- phine in Act. III.) Smudge — Droll young darky. Wears white coat and long white apron. Cap^ — Typical "old salt." Rough blue clothing, blue flannel shirt, black bow tie and a seafarin' cap. Josephine — Middle-aged, strenuous and uncultured. Superfluous finery gives her a ludicrous all-dressed-up appearance. PERSONAL PROPERTIES Act I. Henry — Palette and brushes; dark felt hat. Paul — Pipe, matches. Sophie — Heavy envelope about 9 by 12 inches, con- taining a typed note and a bulky typed manuscript to give to Paul. Mrs. Podge — Rent bill to put on table; handkerchief; large basket with laundry. Mrs. Hawley — Handbag containing folding check-book and fountain pen. Act II. Henry — Palette and brushes. Mrs. Podge — Tray with light breakfast for two; three letters to give to Plenry. O'Malley — Two cardboard suitboxes; red bandana handkerchief; special delivery envelope, containing letter and check, to give to Henry. FIFTY-FIFTY May — Telegram. Paul — Two suitcases. Act III. Smudge — Tray, with bottle containing cold tea or ginger ale, and seltzer bottle; letter to give to Paul. Henry — Palette and brushes. May — Rolled poster; freak hat and curls. For stage props, see descriptions of settings. SCENE PLOT. Acts One and Two. Back Drop showing Sky and House Tops Door r^ Window n Chair Easy Chair Q Chair Screen Ease Bed Door a Box Dresser^ Right Act Three. Hall Backing Left 1 1 1 Door Chair n 1 1 n Chair EaseM ^ O Stool \ Door h <^C h a?r Table \ ^Fire-place \ Right Left STAGE DIRECTIONS Up stage means away from footlights; down stage, near footlights. The actor is supposed to be facing the audience. FIFTY-FIFTY The First Act. Scene: The joint studio of Henry Brown and Paul Green in the attic of a cheap lodging house in New York City. A wide, low window at the hack gives a view of city housetops beyond. There is a door on either side, near the back. The door on the right leads to the hallway. The left door remains closed and un- used during this act. Just above the left door, in the corner, is a cheap iron bed, partially hidden by a large Japanese screen. Below the left door, against the wall, is a bureau. An old library table is down right of center, with a battered chair on either side. Near the hall door is an ancient easy chair. Down left of center is an artist's easel holding a canvas, and on top of the frame is tacked a photograph of a young girl. The easel is set so that the picture is not visible to the audience. There is a wooden box for a stool just above the easel. Two or three old rugs on the floor. Some unfinished paintings are strewn about, and also a black canvas. Everything indicates the extreme poverty of the oc- cupants, though there is an apparent effort of keep- ing up appearances by studio decorations. The mirror of the old dresser is streaked with soap to give it a cracked effect, and on the dresser are collars, brushes, ties, etc. On the table is a veteran typewriting ma- chine, and it is littered also with newspapers, manu- scripts, writing material, a bunch of pawn tickets, an 9 10 FIFTY-FIFTY unwashed milk bottle, half a loaf of bread, pipes and a tobacco jar, newspaper and string. The rise of the curtain reveals Henry standing at the easel, with palette and brushes, working on the can- vas, and Paul at the right end of the table, busily pounding his typewriter and puffing vigorously at his pipe. Henry wears a large, loose lounging robe, old trousers and carpet slippers. Paul has a shabby- genteel business suit; turndown soft collar and flow- ing black tie. He is shirt-sleeved, and his coat is thrown over the back of the chair. For about thirty seconds they work in silence. Then Henry stops work, steps back and surveys his painting with pride and satisfaction. Without taking his eyes from the canvas, he speaks. Henry. Say, Paul. Paul. (Not looking up from his work.) Huh? Henry. Did you ever see a sea? Paul. Did I ever see a what? Henry. See a sea. Stop. I shall make it so plain that even you can comprehend. Did you ever see an ocean? Don't answer. I can see that you have. You have been to Coney Island on two or possibly three occasions. But I mean a regular ocean. Did you ever, for instance, see a mahogany sea? Paul. Never. F I F T Y -FIFTY 11 Henry. (Flourishes brush at canvas.) Well, behold; I have one here, old top. Paul. {Rises, goes to canvas and surveys it.) Well, 111 be . Say, what's the awful idea? (Laughs.) I don't get it, myself. Henry. Poverty, old boy. I used up all my deep seagoing blue a week ago. Today I stumbled on a can of ma- hogany furniture polish in the hallway and — Well, there you are. (Proudly flourishes brush.) A mahog- any sea! Paul. You'll never sell it. (Comes back to table.) Henry. Sell it.^ Say, Paul, I paint pictures. I am an art- ist — not a vulgar clerk. (Gases thoughtfully on can- vas.) But one can never tell! I might here have hit upon a new thought in art. Some critic may focus his carping eye on this canvas and pronounce it the discov- ery of the period. (Sighs.) But what's the use of talking real art to you.^ Paul. (Seated again.) You wrong me. I fully appreciate art, my boy, but not on an empty stomach. (He groans.) Henry. Forget it. Something's bound to turn up before long. Paul. Assuredly — but it'll be mostly landlady, tailor, laun- dry bill, et cetera. Now see here, I want to tell you something. In the future when you coax a bit of bash- ^2 FIFTY-FIFTY ful currency to snuggle within your hand, don't let it turn your head. Hfnry. Hey? Paul. You know what I mean. Only the day before yes- terday when you rounded up twenty-five cents — by some devious method known only to yourself — you went out and bought bread and milk. (Picks up milk bottle.) Henry. Well, didn't I go fifty-fifty with you? Paul. But you knew very well when you squandered two bits on a non-essential, that we didn't have a cigarette in the place. Shame — everlasting shame be upon thy head, O Henry Brown! (Slams bottle on table.) Henrv. To hear you talk one would think you could live with- out eating. Paul. (Rising and crossing to Henry.) No, son. But there's the point. My Bohemian soul is more to me than my mortal appetite. It craves for exuberance, not for mere soggy semisustenance in the shape of bread and milk. When I eat, son, I want to sit at a table covered with the snowiest of linen; where the eye is greeted with real silver, cut glass and the rarest and thinnest of china, while the soft strains of enchanting music seem to smile a cheery welcome and the mellow light from the shaded candelabra sheds its rays upon the engraved menu, while an obsequious waiter stands ready with pad and pencil poised eager to antic- ipate my slightest wish. I want to — FIFTY-FIFTY 13 Henry. (^Interrupting savagely.^ Cut it out ! You've spoiled ray whole day. Paul. Son, you may be an artist on canvas, but at table, you're a farmhand incarnate. Henry. Huh, I knew how to eat before you were born. Paul, Yes, I know, but they're not eating that way any more. {Lights pipe.) And I'm telling you something more. If ever I get one of my plays produced on Broad- way, I'll sure learn to call all those fancy dishes by their first names. {Resumes seat at table.) Henry. {Growlingly .) Well, talk won't get you anywhere. Get to work. Emulate yours truly. I was up at six o'clock this morning. Paul. Gee! I often wondered what it looked like at that hour in the morning. {Inspects sheet of paper in type- writer.) Henry. Do you mean to say that you were never up at that hour } Paul. {Without looking up.) Once — just once, and oh, the horrible sights I saw; icemen and people going to work! Ugh! {Shudders.) Henry. {After pause.) Nearly finished with that yarn? U FIFTY-FIFTY Paul. Uh-huh! Say, what goes with blonde hair? Henry. Rouged lips. Paul. No, no; I mean color of gown. I say here: "Lady Sylvia wore a tight-fitting riding habit that showed to advantage every line and curve of her beautiful figure." Henry. I should call that a bad habit. Paul. (^Leaning bach.) Huh! That's the best I could expect from the dis- coverer of a mahogany sea. How're things with the fair Sophie? Henry. Same old story. {Takes photograph from top of easel, gazes at it, sighs.) I can't convince her that a woman's place is in the home. She says she'll be famous before I will. And there's no use in arguing with a woman. (Places photograph back on easel.) That means I have a fine chance^ eh? But how about you? Ever think about the marriage thing? Paul. Frequently. Henry. What do you think of it? Paul. The more I think of it, the less I think of it. (There is a knock on the hall door. They start guilt- ily at the sound and gaze anxiously at each other.) Landlady ! Laundry ! FIFTY-FIFTY 15 Henry. (^Guardedly.) Paul. Henry. Tailor bill! {They rise and look about, seeking a hiding place. The knock is repeated. They hide he- hind the screen and stoop so they cannot he seen as the hall door opens and — ) Sophie enters with a hulky envelope in her hand. As she comes in, the pals' heads rise cautiously to view. Sophie throws envelope on tahle and starts to go. Sophie. (^Going,^ Mail! Henry. Well, why didn't you say so.^ Sophie. {Laughing as she sees them.) One-two-three on Henry and Paul! What are you two hiding for.^ Paul. {Coming from hehind screen with Henry.) We were not hiding "for," my dear Sophie. We were hiding "from." {Picks up envelope, weighs it ruefully in his hand, then tosses it on table.) Back again, eh, old friend.^ Thumbs down once more on "The Primrose Path." Henry. Well.? Paul. Farewell, Broadway's bright lights ! {Dejectedly sinks into chair.) I shall behold them only from afar! 16 FIFTY-FIFTY '__ Henry. Open said envelope. It may not be true. Paul. I have X-ray vision with packages like that. I can read it from here. But to oblige. {Going to table, he opens envelope and extracts large package of manuscript and a letter. He reads the letter aloud.) "Mr. Paul Green, et cetera, Dear Sir: Herewith is returned your play manuscript, 'The Primrose Path.' Regret that same is unavailable at present." Sophie. (Trying to he cheerful.) Oh, well; it might have been worse. Paul. Yes. It might have come back with postage due. That's one thing I have on Henry. My classic creations aren't three feet square, and they have a better chance to travel. Henry. Why don't you try keeping pigeons for a change? They travel cheaper, and they have the same habits as your plays and stories — they always come home. And you can cook a pigeon and make pot pie of it. Paul. (Returning the banter.) Oh, is that so.^ Sophie, did you ever see a mahogany sea.'' (Takes Henry's new painting off easel and hands it to her. She looks at it earnestly, and then bursts into laughter.) Henry. (Annoyed.) Well, what's wrong with it? FIFTY-FIFTY 17 Sophie. {Laughing.^ Why — nothing. Only — what is it? {Carelessly places it hack on easel, unintentionally standing it up- side down.) -.-^ Henry. I suppose you think it's a comic cartoon! Sophie. Oh, no. A person can always tell what those things mean. _, Paul. Sophie, you are not in tune with the atmosphere of Bohemia, or your artistic soul would throb in response to the message of that canvas. Sophie. My soul is throbbing, all right. But what is it.'' Henry. Why, it's a sea. Paul. Of course; a mahogany sea. Sophie. (Standing off and inspecting canvas.) Oh, yes. I'm beginning to get the effect. It's rather stormy, isn't it.^ And I'm such a poor sailor. {Acts ^'"'y-'^ Henrv. (Striding across to her, and glancing at picture.) Why, you've stood it upside down. Sophie. (^Innocently.) Oh, have I ? Well, that's the effect that it has on me. Paul. (Looks at Sophie, then at picture, and laughs.) Oh, I get the idea. 18 FIFTY-FIFTY Henry. {Out of all patience.) Well, I don't. Sophie. (Placatingly.) Don't be an old bear, Henry dear. I can't help it sometimes, you're so easily teased. It's a wonderful pic- ture, and you're sure to sell it. Don't you think so, Paul? Paul. Eventually, of course — but why not now? There's the question we can't answer. Henry. Goodness knows we try hard enough, but nobody seems to be breaking their necks to corner our efforts. I know I paint a good picture. Paul. And I write good stuff. {Knock at hall door. They exchange startled glances.) Henry. {Guardedly.) See who it is. {Rises.) Paul. {Same tone.) See yourself. {Rises.) Henry. Not me. It isn't the postman this time. And to all others we are not at home. {Knock is repeated. The three cautiously tiptoe to screen and hide behind it. Knock is again repeated, slight pause and then — ) O'Malley and Mrs. Podge enter. Henry, Paul FIFTY-FIFTY 19 and Sophie have been peeking over screen, hut now withdraw their heads. O'Malley. {After a searching glance about.) Huh! Nobody home. Mrs. Podge. {Sourly.) Never are when I want to see 'em on business. O'Malley. {Mysteriously.) Whisper^ Mrs. Podge — do ye s'pose they're afther skippin' their rint? Mrs. Podge. If they'd done it a month ago I'd have been better off, O'MaUey. O'Malley. {Inspecting canvas.) And would jqz look at that now ! What it is I dunno. Mrs. Podge. {Sarcastically.) Don't you recognize the work of our brilliant artist, Mr. Henry Brown .^ O'Malley. Sure artists make pictures — but what makes artists.^ Mrs. Podge. A natural distaste to work, I guess, O'Malley. O'Malley. {Shaking his head.) Such a waste of time an' good paint. An' to think of all the cellars that needs whitewashin'. {Clucks tongue disparagingly.) 20 F IFTY-FIFTY Mrs. Podge. And me, like a fool, doing their laundry for the last five weeks without getting a cent for it — to say noth- ing of the rent. ^,,, ^ O Malley. Now, Mrs. Podge, don't be afther callin' y'rself names. Ain't I been settin' up nights afther me janitor work was done, practicin' me ould tailorin' thrade on their Sunday-go-to-maytin' clothes? An' divil a cint does I git for me throuble. Mrs. Podge. {Laying a slip of paper on table.) I'll leave them a reminder, as usual — though a lot of good it will do. I'll have them thrown out, O'Malley, that's what I'll do. I'll have them thrown out! O'Malley. (Picking up pencil and paper.) A good idee, and I'll lave a bill meself. {Writes awkwardly.) ^^^^ ^^^^^ {While O'Malley writes.) Well, their shirts and collars will stay right down- stairs in the laundry until they give me something bet- ter than excuses. ^,^, O Malley. (Still writing.) That's the stuff, Mrs. Podge ! And their foine mended and pressed coats an' pants will hang right in me locker be the furnace room till they make a noise loike pay- day. (Finishes writing and holds up slip of paper proudly.) "Six eighty-five plase remit if ye want y'r pants O'Malley the tailor." How's that, me lady.^ Mrs. Podge. You're wasting your time, and so am I. {Going to hall door.) FIFTY-FIFTY 21 O'Malley. {Going with her.) I'll just step along with yez, Mrs. Podge, so ye don't thrip on the stairs, loike. (He bows her out into the hall, follows her, closing the door behind him.) {The heads of Sophie, Henry and Paul appear above the screen; after a careful reconnoiter they come down center.) Henry. (Making sure the visitors have really departed.) The Irish scoundrel ! Paul. The landlady villain ! She'll keep our linen. Henry. The janitor's keeping our clothes. Oh, just wait till I lay my hands on him! (Paces angrily.) He roasted my picture, too. He called it, "What it is I dunno." Sophie. Take my advice and don't start anything with the name of Patrick O'Malley tied to it. Henry. There's only one thing that holds me back — Sophie. Yes, I know — Patrick O'Malley. Henry. (Stops pacing and faces Paul.) Well, what's to be done? We've one fifty-fifty suit of clothes between us and you have that on. As for linen — Paul. I have that on also. _.^ Henry. Money ? 22 FIFTY-FIFTY Paul. No, you wrong me. I'm not wearing any of that. Sophie. Inventory taken, let's get down to brass tacks. Who has an idea? _ Paul. I thought I had, but it came back. {Points to manu- script on table.) Wait. (Strikes palm of hand against forehead, thoughtful pose.) Henry. Aha, business of thinking. Paul. (Shrugging his shoulders.) Never mind waiting. ■ It was a false alarm. Son, we've got to negotiate a loan, or sleep in the park. Sophie. Fine. How much do you want? Henry. (Eagerly.) Do you know where we can get it ? Sophie. Surely. I'll lend it to you. Paul. You? Since when have you resigned from the pro- letariat? TT Henry. You lend money to us? The idea! Sophie. I told you I'd beat you to fame and fortune, Henry Brown, and I give you fair warning. I'm in the lead right now. (Grandly.) I have an engagement. (Pause.) Well, Henry, aren't you proud of your Sophie? FIFTY-FIFTY 23 Henry. (Displeased.) To be very frank about it, I'm not. You know I don't like this idea of yours about a career. Dancing is all right in its way, but when it comes to making a profession of it, and performing in cabarets, and on the stage, and things, it isn't — well, it isn't — quite — er — (Struggles for word.) Sophie. (With wounded pride.) Respectable? Is that the word you're looking for? Henry. Why, no. Of course — I don't mean — (Paul, at the first storm warning, has gone back to the table and resumed his seat in front of his typewriter, where he pretends to be lost in thought over his writing.) Sophie. (To Henry.) Oh, I know what you mean, all right. You mean that it's all right for Henry Brown, because he's a man, to work for his art, but it isn't all right for Sophie Bland, because she happens to be a girl, to work for her art, and to — Henry. (Scoffingly.) Art! Do you mean to say that jumping and pranc- ing around to the tune of a ragtime band, in front of a crowd of cheap sensation seekers, is art? Not on your life! How many times must I tell you, Sophie, that a woman's place is in — Sophie. (W earily .) Yes, Henry dear, I know. A woman's place is in the home. But I am not a mere woman of the common 24 FIFTY-FIFTY or garden variety. (Again in a teasing mood.) I, Henry dear^ am an artiste — a devotee at the shrine of terpsichore (performs two or three graceful steps, hum- ming the while) and Henry, dear Henry, I've landed a job! (Curtseys smilingly before him. Paul sudden- ly pounds the typewriter furiously.) Paul! Will you cut out that orchestra effect? You ought to know bet- ter than to try to imitate a jazz band without a saxo- phone. ^, Henry. (Surlily.) Where is it that you have this new job? Sophie. (Eagerly.) Oh, will you come and see me dance — and you, Paul? Paul. Surest thing you know. Henry. Not on your life ! Sophie. Well, anyway, I've drawn a week's salary on account. It isn't much, but I don't need it right now, and if it will help you, you're welcome to the whole seventy-five dollars. Henry. Seventy-five dollars? For one week? (She nods, pleased at his surprise.) There you go rubbing it in. It isn't enough that we have to grub along, year after year, without one word of recognition for real artistic effort, but you have to come along with this freak dancing stuff and show us what dubs we are. Rub it in, just like a woman ! _ Paul. Here, son, you seem to have forgotten that I do all the woman-hating for this partnership. You're sup- posed to be in love with the girl. J FIFTY-FIFTY 25 Henry. {Defensively.) I do love her. But, confound it — she's stubborn ! Sophie. Well, all art aside, how much money do you need? Henry. {Tragically.) Me borrow money of you? The crowning insult of it all! Sophie. {Miffed, going to hall door.) Oh, very well, then. I wasn't asking a favor of you. {At door.) Go and sleep in the park, and see how you like it. {Quick exit.) (Henry stares sulkily at the door, and Paul looks at him in cynical amusement.) Paul. {Chuckling.) Charming girl, Sophie. Pretty; vivacious; talented; lovely. Henry. Think so? Paul. I know so. Henry. Look here. There's a limit to this fifty-fifty business. Paul. Right you are, old son. And I was just about to remark that though I appreciate the lady's vivacity, personality and charm, I'm glad you're the one who is cast to play the part of the jolly bridegroom. Henry. She's too headstrong. That's the trouble. 26 FIFTY-FIFTY Paul. Artistic temperament. Henry. Artistic fiddlesticks ! What excuse has she for an artistic temperament.^ Son, to us dancing may be the bunk. But to the public it's the goods. Sophie knocks 'em cold. The public says, "You're there/' and it's all to the merry. We may be there, too, but the public should worry if it can't see us. Henry. That's just the point. Here you are, a perfectly good writer; and I a perfectly good artist. And we can go and starve. Artists, both of us; and the world ignores us ! And yet she seeks to become a dancer — against my wishes. She takes lessons — against my wishes. She looks for a professional position — against my wishes. Paul, And she gets a position — against your wishes. And little Henry's dog-gone jealous. Henry. {Bitterly.) But she's so unreasonable. Paul. She's unreasonable.^ (Shrugs his shoulders and waves his arms.) Oh, I give it up! You're a jackass! Henry. (Realising the absurdity of his own conduct, and smiling sheepishly.) I don't know but what you're right. (There is an emphatic knocking at the hall door, and, before they can get under cover, the door opens and — ) FIFTY-FIFTY 27 Mrs. Podge enters. Mrs. Podge. Don't be startled, Mr. Brown and Mr. Green. It's only me. I just thought I'd walk right in. , Henry. feo we observe. Mrs. Podge. I came about the rent. Paul. (^Cheerily. ^ Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Podge — certainly — have a seat. (Places chair for her down center.) Charming morning, isn't it? And how extremely well you are looking, Mrs. Podge. You're getting younger every day — isn't she, Henry .^^ Mrs. Podge. (Seated stolidly.) I came about the rent, Mr. Green. Paul. (Gaily.) Of course you did. Henry. Perfectly lovely of you. Paul. Saves us the trouble of taking it to you. Let me see. How much do we owe you, my dear Mrs. Podge .^ Mrs. Podge. (Stiffly.) Five weeks at five dollars the week, is twenty-five dollars. tt Henry. (^Admiringly.) So it is, so it is. My, how quick and accurate you are at figures. 28 FIFTY-FIFTY Mrs. Podge. Never mind my figure! What I want to know is, when do I get my twenty-five dollars? Paul. Very shortly, Mrs. Podge; very shortly. Mrs. Podge. Huh! I've heard them stories before. Paul. But there's one story you haven't heard before, Mrs. Podge, and this is the story that will bring you the twenty-five dollars — and ever so manj'^ more. (Picks up a loose manuscript from the table.) This is a wonderful story. Why, eight editors have already declared that they never before read anything like it. Listen: (Reads.) "It was a cold, dark, damp and dismal eve- ning. The street lights shone fitfully and were reflected on the wet and slippery pavements. It was on just such a night as this — " Mrs. Podge. (Interrupting.) I have my day's work to do, Mr. Green, and I don't see what a damp, dismal evening has to do with five weeks at five dollars a week. Paul. Of course. Pardon me. Where were we.** Mrs. Podge. Twenty-five dollars. Paul. Exactly. You're absolutely right to the penny. Now that we have that settled, allow me to thank you in behalf of Mr. Brown and myself for so kindly keeping track of our indebtedness. Also permit me, my dear Mrs. Podge. (Raises her gallantly from chair and FIFTY-FIFTY 29 escorts her towards hall door.) So very, very good of you to call — you must surely come in again very soon. Mrs. Podge. {At door almost before she realizes what he is attempt- ing to do, and then she frees herself.) No, you don't! I came about the rent, and you ain't going to talk me out of it, either. (Step by step she drites him backward to the table.) Just because you're a slick talker ain't a-going to make me sign your rent receipt. No, siree ! Money talks today, Mr. Green, not vou. _._ Henry. But my dear Mrs. Podge — Mrs. Podge. Five weeks, twenty-five dollars. Settle! Paul. Now, Mrs. Podge, we're sorry, but we haven't it today. Perhaps tomorrow — Mrs. Podge. No, today. Today or out you go! (Mournfully.) Ah, this all comes of being alone in the world; every- body imposes on me. (Dabs eyes with handkerchief.) It's been this way ever since Mr. Podge went to sea. ___ , . Paul. Went to see what.'^ Mrs. Podge. (Seats herself.) Mr. Podge was a sailor. He went to sea seven years come next Friday and he never came back. (Sniffs.) He was drowned dead. Henry. Ah, then, perhaps you can help me out. You are the wife of — the widow, I should say, — of a sailor. 30 FIFTY-FIFTY You should be a connoisseur of things marine. Kindly look at this picture and tell me what you think of its coloring. Mrs. Podge. {Surveys picture.^ Well! What is it? Henry. Sunset on the ocean. (Poses proudly.) Mrs. Podge. Looks more like a sample of furniture varnish. But I didn't come here to pass an opinion on your picture. I came about the rent. (He lifts a hand in protest.) And there's another thing, Mr. Brown. And I don't like to have to mention it, but you'd better realize that there ain't never been a breath of scandal about my lodging house. Henry. That's fine, Mrs. Podge. You are to be congratulated on having such a good class of lodgers. Mrs. Podge. (Eyeing him narrowly.) And I don't intend, Mr. Brown, that there should be any cause for comment now. Henry. A very commendable policy, Mrs. Podge; very com- mendable. Paul. Yes, Mrs. Podge. Financially we may be — er — weak. But morally we are impeccable. Mrs. Podge. (Darkly.) I ain't so sure about that. FIFTY-FIFTY 31 Paul. (^Genuinely surprised.) Why, Mrs. Podge! Mrs. Podge. Well, I hope there ain't nothing to it. Only all I got to say is that there's altogether too much feminine callers going on in this studio, and that sort of thing don't go in my lodging house. Paul. Feminine callers? Henry. Surely you don't mean — Miss Bland .^ Mrs, Podge. {Primly.) Well, being a lady myself I ain't mentioning no names. Henry. But don't you understand? Sophie and I are en- gaged. And we — why — I can't see anything out of the way in that. Mrs. Podge. All I got to say is that where they ain't any chap- erons it don't go ! Paul. How about me? Don't I make a pretty classy chap- eron? No nonsense when I'm around, Mrs. Podge. Mrs. Podge. All I got to say is I can't permit it. Now if Mr. Green was a married man, it might be different, of course. Henry. {Eagerly.) It would be all right then? 32 FIFTY-FIFTY Mrs. Podge. Well, it would seem more — respectable, like. Henry. Paul, tell Mrs. Podge the secret chapter in your life. Paul. {Dumbfounded.) Huh.? Tell her what.? Henry. Explain to her that you are, in reality, a married man. {Vigorously motions Paul to agree, behind her back.) ^ Paul. Me? Married.? Say, what the — Henry. {Interrupting.) Yes, of course. {More strenuous gestures, unobserved by Mrs. Podge.) It's all right for Sophie to visit the studio when she pleases, because she is properly chap- eroned. If you were not married, it would be rather — er — unconventional for us to entertain ladies here. But as it is, why — Paul. {Gradually getting wise.) Oh; I see. {To Mrs. Podge.) Yes, Mrs. Podge, I'm afraid it's only too true. Mrs. Podge. {Suspiciously.) Then where is Mrs. Green? Paul. Who? Mrs. Podge. Where is your wife? F I F r Y - F I F T Y 33 Paul. That's so. Come to think of it^, where is she? Henry, do you happen to know who — I mean where my wife is ? Henry. Let me see. The last I heard from her — heard of her, she was — er — in Milwaukee. Paul. Milwaukee. Thank you, Henry. (To Mrs. Podge.) Mj^ wife is in Milwaukee. Mrs. Podge. What's she doing in Milwaukee? Paul. (Floundering.) Well, now, that's a difficult question to answer ; a very difficult question. I think — I'm not positive, you understand, and I wouldn't want to state it as an abso- lute fact — but I rather imagine that she's — er — (tri- umphantly) having breakfast. Mrs. Podge. (Grunts cynically.) Hmph ! Why ain't she here ? Paul. Really, Mrs. Podge — your blunt manner of asking questions of a — er— personal nature is disconcerting. Really, it is, you know. Henry. You should explain to Mrs. Podge, Paul, that you and Mrs. Green are — that is — that you aren't living together, Mrs. Podge. Hmph! I can see that! Paul, Of course, Henry, Mrs. Podge can see that. 34 FIFTY-FIFTY Mrs. Podge. But what I want to know^ Mr. Green^ is why ain't you.' Paul. Why ain't I what? Mrs. Podge. Living together; you and your wife. Paul. Why she — I mean I — that is — To tell the truth, Mrs. Podge, it is — er — a very delicate subject. I never discuss it. Do I, Henry .^ Hexry. That's right, Mrs. Podge. He never discusses it. Paul. It is a very painful subject. I think I'd — {Desper- ately.) Henry, you tell Mrs. Podge. Henry. {Gives comedy start.) Me? Why should I tell her? Paul. Because I cant make up a — Hexry, {Breaking in.) Of course. That's it. He can't make up, Mrs. Podge. He's very temperamental. So is his wife. You see, it seems they had a little misunderstanding — over some trifle wasn't it, Paul? Paul. Oh, yes. A very trifling little trifle. Hexry. But he can't make up. And she can't make up. And so — there you are. FIFTY-FIFTY 35 Mrs. Podge. HmphI I believe there's something back of all this. I don't know whether Mr. Green is the sort of person that I want — Henry. (Interrupting.^ Oh- nothing like that. Mrs. Podge. Nothing like that I It's perfectly all right. I assure you. Mrs. Podge. Well. I don't want nobody with no scandal bringing no bad name on my rooming house. I ve always had people with good recommendations. I hare, and I ain't never had nobody before with a wife in Milwaukee and live weeks behind in the rent, and I don't want to — Hexrt. That's just it. Mrs. Podge. Don't you seer Mr. Green's wife in Milwaukee is quite well off. Mrs. Podge. Hmph I Maybe that's why she stays in Milwaukee — because she knows she s well off. Hexry. You don't understand. Now if you only knew the original cause of this misunderstanding : I think you're really entitled to know. {To Paul.) Don't you, Paul.' Undoubtedly. Then tell her. Paui.. Hexry. Paex. {Taken aba^k.) Well, the truth :? — D-r you know, Mrs. Podg<^; it's verv difficult to ttll :r.T :r::hr 36 FIFTY-FIFTY Mrs. Podge. (With sarcasm.) I guess it is! Paul. I mean that there are some things which we can at- tempt in vain to put into words. Oh, if you only knew how I am suffering! Once I was happy — and look at me now! Mrs. Podge. I'm looking right at you, Mr. Green. Paul. I know it. And I can only appeal to you in dumb sup- plication, as a woman with a noble and understanding heart, not to throw us into the street without — Mrs. Podge. What are you talking about? Paul. (Desperately.) I don't know. Ask Henry. I don't know anything. (Shouts and waves arms.) I don't know anything! (Sinks desperately in big chair, elbows on knees and buries face in hands. ) I'm going mad! Mrs. Podge. (Somewhat alarmed, looks at Henry inquiringly.) Henry. (Shaking his head.) Poor fellow. He'll soon be ringing the doorbell of the nearest crazy bazaar. Mrs. Podge. (Rising.) What? FIFTY-FIFTY 37 Henry. (With a sly look at Paul.) It's really pathetic. The squirrels follow him every- where. __ ^ Mrs. Fodc4E. {Frightened.) You mean — he's out of his head.'^ {Starts vigorously for hall door.) Let me out of here! Henry. {Restraining her.) Be calm, my dear Mrs. Podge. Be calm! {Gets her back into chair.) There's nothing we can do now. You are a poor defenseless woman, and I am a poor defense- less man — without any clothes. Mrs. Podge. I keep a respectable lodging house, I do, and I never had no such goings on before — never! I kind o' took pity on his hard luck, but I won't have a crazy man around another day. Not another day! {Tries to rise, and Henry pushes her back into chair.) Henry. It's all my fault, Mrs. Podge. I didn't think. He never gets these spells, unless someone mentions his wife. And then — he goes right off his nut. He can't stand it to hear his wife mentioned. You know he's a woman- Mrs. Podge. A woman-hater } And him a married man ! Henry. Sure. That's how he got that way. Mrs. Podge. {Whispers to Henry.) What was it — that they quarreled about? 38 FIFTY-FIFTY Henry. Oh, I couldn't tell you. Mrs. Podge. (^Rises, annoyed.^ Very well, Mr. Brown. Not that I'm curious about other folks' affairs, because I ain't. There ain't noth- ing of the gossip about me. But remember — {starts for door) twenty-five dollars — tomorrow — or out you go ! Henry. {As she reaches the door.) Wait! Mrs. Podge. {Turns with hand G7i doorknob.) I don't want no more excuses. Twenty-five — Henry. You wanted to know why they quarreled. I think you should know. Mrs. Podge. {Comes back to him, her eyes glowing at the prospect of gossip.) Yes, Mr. Brown, I certainly should knov/. Henry. His wife is wealthy, immensely wealthy. Mr. Green was — er — financially embarrassed — temporarily, of course. She offered him some money. Mr. Green — high spirited and sensitive, you know — refused to accept it. One word led to another. And they — they separated. {Leans forward and speaks confidentially.) He has been speaking recently, of apologizing to her. It will be difficult for him, of course. He is so temperamental. But when he apologizes — when Mr. Green does apologize to his wife in Milwaukee — FIFTY-FIFTY 39 Mrs. Podge. {Eagerly.) Yes } When he does — Henry. Your twenty-five dollars will be (snaps fingers airily) like that ! Mrs. Podge. I'll get my money .^ Henry. And your unfailing patience will not be overlooked. You will be well rewarded, Mrs. Podge. {Going to hall door.) Well, of course; I don't want to be too hard on you young men — Henry. {Subtly.) And our laundry ; dear Mrs. Podge. Don't you think^ — a shirt or two — ? Mrs. Podge. • {Turning for a moment as she opens the door.) We'll talk about that when Mr. Green apologizes to his wife in Milwaukee. {Exit.) {Throughout this scene Henry and Paul have been slyly having fun with each other behind Mrs. Podge^s back, Paul frequently raising his face from his hands unobserved by her, and showing his appreciation of Henry's inventive faculty. Paul now rises, stretches his arms upward, and yawns.) Henry. {Reaching up and grabbing Paul's hand, which he shakes.) Old pal, I congratulate you. 40 FIFTY-FIFTY Paul. Upon your wife in Milwaukee. Henry. Upon what? Paul. {Repeats handshaking business.) Son^ I congratulate you. Henry. Me? What for? Paul. As a fabricator of fiction, you have me faded forty ways. You're the best darn liar in the country. But what's the big idea? __. Henry. She insisted that Sophie be properly chaperoned. So I simply fixed it up for her. Paul. Yes, and you simply fixed it up for me. Henry. I fixed it up for both of us. Didn't you see how she wilted at that wealthy stuff? We don't have to sleep in the park — for a few days, anyway. Paul. That's right. But you haven't mentioned the really wonderful part of the whole performance. Henry. What was that? ^ Paul. You prevaricated yourself out of that infernal grouch. Why, you're quite human now. The trouble with you is, you're too upright. You don't lie enough. Henry. You're always cheerful. Don't you ever tell the truth? F I F T Y -F I F T Y 41 Paul. Once in a while. But you know my motto — fifty-fifty. Just the same, there's such a thing as — (There is a knock at the door. They exchange startled glances, and the knock is repeated. They tiptoe to screen, in comedy manner, and hide behind it, peeking over the top.) Sophie. {Off stage, raps smartly on door.) Henry, are you home.^ (Henry comes from behind screen and starts for door.) We're coming in. Henry. (Aside.) "We're coming in !" (Sprints hack of screen, clutch- ing his robe around him.) Sophie opens the door and enters, then stands aside for Mrs. Hawley and May Dexter, who follow her in. All show surprise at finding the apartment unoccupied. May curiously inspects things. Mrs. Hawley. ' (Breathing rather heavily.) You see, my dear^ he's not in. (Seats herself heavily at table.) Sophie. (Disappointedly.) Oh, dear. I wonder where he is. Mrs. Hawley. (With difficulty.) I'm completely out of breath. My, what a dreadful climb! (The pals gradually raise their heads above the screen and, unobserved, watch the guests.) 42 FIFTY-FIFTY May. {Enraptured.) And this — this is an artist's studio! Isn't it won- derful. Sophie. {Proudly.) You should see Henry. (Henry grins and Paul gr'nnaces.) Mrs. Hawley. Yes^ we should, but we don't. May. This is my very lirst visit to an artist's studio. I had no idea they were like this. Mrs. Hawley. They're not, my dear. May. {Still looking around.) And is this where they paint those wonderful pictures ? Mrs. Hawley. No, dear — you're in the wrong studio. {The pals look blankly at each other; their heads slowly sink from view. ) May. Aunty, what's the matter? You are generally so in- terested in discovering new artists. {The pals' heads appear suddenly.) Mrs. Hawley. {In blase tone.) Oh, I knew the moment we stepped inside there was nothing to be found here. I dare say any picture in the studio could be bought for a hundred dollars. (Paul claps hand to brow and looks at Henry. Henry waves his hand to catch Sophie's eye, but fails.) FIFTY-FIFTY Sophie. I'm sure that Henry will be here soon. He's been rather unfortunate lately. (Henry snaps his fingers at her, and both pals duck behind screen just as Sophie looks in their direction.) Mrs. Hawley. May, don't snap your fingers. It's a sign of nervous- ness, and it is very ill-bred. May. I didn't snap my fingers. Aunty. (Sophie has been •watching screen, and sees Henry peek over the top. She laughs and motions him to come out. He shakes his head negatively, and disappears.) Sophie. Oh, that noise was probably nothing but the rats. Mrs. Hawley. Sophie. Of course. Isn't it quite usual for artists and authors to live in attics^ and have rats in their attic? {A fist is shaken at her over the top of the screen.) Mrs. Hawley. (Starts to rise.) This is hardly a place for us to stay if there are — May. (Restraining her.) Really, Aunty, it's too romantic. You aren't fright- ened, are you? Mrs. Hawley. To be frightened by rats and mice is neither refined nor dignified. I am not frightened. However, I am not altogether comfortable. I thought I might find a paint- 44 FIFTY-FIFTY ing worth picking up, to add to my collection. It ap- pears that our visit is in vain. (Henry^s head bobs up and Paul is seen to pull him down again.) May. Why, you haven't even looked them over. Mrs. Hawley. It's all I can do to overlook them. May. {Who has gone to picture on easel and surveyed it from every angle.) This is simply exquisite. The coloring shows great technique; and the tone is so original. {The men peer over screen.) I do think cubist themes are the sweetest things! (Henry grimaces, Paul grins.) Sophie. {Glancing at Henry to let him know that she is teasing him.) Oh, my dear, that isn't a cubist theme. {Knowingly.) That's a bit of wild animal life— "Call of the Wild," I believe. Very appropriate title, too. (Paul grins ma- liciously. Henry motions frantically to Sophie to have- her reverse the picture, but her back is turned.) Mrs. Hawley. {Picking up tailor and laundry bills from table.) My dear, you are quite right. Judging from these, I should say, "The Call of the Wild" has lately paid a visit here. {The men quickly lower their heads.) A bill from a tailor and another from a laundress. Also a bunch of pawn tickets. Scandalous ! Sophie. I don't consider it quite the proper thing to examine private papers belonging to another. FIFTY-FIFTY Mrs. Hawley. I couldn't help seeing them. May. Oh, please do look at this picture, Aunty. It's really — well — I think it's remarkable. Sophie. Yes, Mrs. Hawley, it's Mr. Brown's latest. I don't know whether it's quite finished yet. {Again Henry motions to her, hut she responds with a teasing wave of the hand and turns away before he can convey his wish to have the picture turned rightside up.) I think you might find it interesting. Mrs. Hawley. (Bored.) Well, it can't possibly be anything, but since it is the young man's masterpiece, and I flatter myself that I know something about pictures, he may be pleased to know that I have looked at it. (Crossing toward easel.) May. (Looking at picture.) Don't you think it's just too — Sophie. (Who has preceded Mrs. Hawley to easel, is aghast to see the picture has been left wrong side up. She wrings her hands, and sees at last what Henry meant. But it is too late, for — ) Mrs. Hawley. (Goes leisurely to easel and critically examines the picture through her lorgnette, looks scornfully at first, then raises her eyebrows, and stoops forward as though to examine every detail, then steps back and views it in the large.) 46 FIFTY-FIFTY . Well, really — upon my word — Miss Bland, this is — simply amazing. (Henry and Paul look pathetically at each other, and Sophie looks pleadingly at Henry as though begging forgiveness. Although addressing Sophie, Mrs. Hawley has not taken her eyes from the picture.) Sophie. {In distress.) Yes, it is ; amazing. Somehow I don't like it, myself, as well as I did at first. Mrs. Hawley. (Patronizingly.) That must be because you have a deficient apprecia- tion of symbolism in art. Sophie. (Quickly.) What do you mean.^* Mrs. Hawley. I mean that this picture is a masterpiece ! (Henry and Paul, who have been listening and watch- ing in misery, give a quick start and look at each other in amazement. Sophie sways for a moment, as though feeling faint.) ^^^ Sophie; what is the matter? Sophie. It's all right. May. I thought for a moment — that your Aunt wanted to buy it. Mrs. Hawley. (So interested in the picture that she does not notice the action of the others.) Buy it! Certainly I'm going to buy it. I intend to have that picture. Why, it's the beginning of a new F IFTY-FIFTY 47 school. It is a wond'erfully original conception of art. That young man will become famous ! {Returning to her chair,) We'll wait for your artist friend to return, Miss Bland. I'm not going home without this picture. {Looks scornfully about her.) And to think of finding it in a barn like this. {Ya!wns.) 0\\, hum. Well, that is one of the joys of being an art collector. One never knows. (Settles herself comfortahly.) Sophie. {With a furtive look toward the screen.) I really think we'd better come again. I don't believe — Mrs. Hawley. {With finality.) When I go, young woman, that picture goes with me. Sophie. {Turning to May.) Really — it may be hours before they — Oh, we ought not to stay here. {Steals an uneasy glance toward screen.) ^ May. Why, we're properly chaperoned. And you know I've never been in an artist's studio before. Sophie. But it won't do us any good to wait — I mean they've probably gone out for the day — and — {tries to think up an excuse to get them away.) May. No use, Sophie, dear. When Aunty decides to do a thing, she generally does it. (Mrs. Hawley is falling into a heavy doze. May has wandered to table and picked up Paul's story, and starts reading it.) What's this? One of Mr. — er — Green's stories.^ "It was a cold, dark, damp and dismal evening." (Paul is peering 48 FIFTY-FIFTY proudly over the screen, smiling' with pride.) "The street lights shone fitfully and were reflected — " Hm; not so good. (Paul registers chagrin and sinks from view. May turns to the last page of the manuscript and starts reading to herself.) Hm, not so bad either. I'd like to meet this man. (Continues reading to herself.) (While May is reading, Sophie nervously watches screen for fear the pals will reveal their presence. Then Sophie joins May at table and they converse in pan- tomime. Paul cautiously steps from behind screen, with the intention of making door, unobserved.) Henry. (Fiercely aside, grabbing Paul.) Hold on. Where're you going? Paul. (Guardedly aside.) She's dying to meet me. I'll sneak out the door and then dash in. What? ^t Henry. (Angrily aside.) No, you won't. You take o& those clothes. I'll put them on and do the dashing. See? Paul. (Breaking Henry's hold.) Think you will? Watch me! (Grins.) You will give me a wife in Milwaukee, will you? (Cautiously crosses to hall door and hastily exits, leaving Henry a picture of comedy consternation.) Sophie. (To May.) And I'm positive you'll admire Mr. Green almost quite as much as you will Henry — Mr. Brown, I mean. May. From what you have told me, he must be charming. FIFTY-FIFTY 49 Heavy footsteps approach the door, then Paul hursts into the room, recoiling in apparent astonishment as he beholds the women. He quickly recovers and advances to meet them. Henry views proceedings over top of screen, with varied emotions. Paul. Why, of all the delightful surprises — Miss Bland, by jove! {Extends hand.) Sophie. {Places hand in his.) You don't mind our intruding, do you? But (anxiously) where is Henrv? _ ^ Paul. (Glances about in apparent astonishment.) Isn't he here? Why, I left him here just a few mo- ments ago. (He grins at Henry, who shakes a fist in return.) Sophie. Then he's probably stepped out. I — oh, I beg your pardon, I want you to meet Miss Dexter. She's been abroad for a long time and only returned yesterday. (In- troduction follows. Paul is highly elated, while Henry is furiously angry.) (To Sophie.) You don't need to apologize for your so-called in- trusion, but I must apologize for the condition of our studio this morning. (To May.) You see, unless one is accustomed to visiting a studio occasionally, they have a wrong impression of just what it is like. Genius, my dear Miss Dexter, is a most peculiar institution. It must have a certain atmosphere in which to thrive. At least, so Henry and I find it. We strive more for rude com- forts and true Bohemianism than for the enervating effects so often produced by surroundings of luxury. (Swells proudly.) 50 FIFTY-FIFTY May. I understand. Oh, I think this is the most charming- place ! (Sophie nods approval and Henry grimaces.) Paul. For instance (points at picture), there's Henry's latest creation — "A Morning in the Country." Why, atmos- phere is fairly oozing from it. Sophie. {Surveying picture.) Hum! May thought she recognized in it one subject, I thought of another, and now you pronounce it some- thing else. T^ ® Paul. (Confidentially.) Sh! That's the wonderful part of Henry's creations. Nobody can correctly catalogue them — not even Henry himself. (Grins at Henry, who shakes his fist.) Sophie. Poor Henry! I'm afraid he's working too hard. (Sighs.) I haven't seen very much of him of late. Paul. (Meaningly.) You haven't looked in the right place. (Quickly.) I mean to say he doesn't go out much lately. » Mrs. Hawley. (Straightens up and rubs hands across eyes.) Bless my soul! Have I been dozing? May. Yes, dear, and Mr. Green has just come in. Mr. Green, my Aunt, Mrs. Hawley. _ -^ Paul. (Cordially.) Charmed, I'm sure. (He takes her hand.) I must FIFTY-FIFTY 51 really apologize for not being in a position to offer you a cup of chocolate and a biscuit. Our valet's day off^ you know. He's locked his pantry and taken the key with Mrs. Hawley. {Coming straight to the point.) Young man, did you paint that picture.'' {Points to easel.) ^ Paul. Why, no. That was my friend, Mr. Brown. {Casu- ally.) Pretty little thing, isn't it? Mrs. Hawley. When will Mr. Brown be here? Paul. {Glancing furtively toward screen.) It's hard to say when he'll get away from where he is now. ^. -.^ Mrs. Hawley. Young man, I want to buy that picture. (Henry peers eagerly over screen.) Have you the authority to sell it to me? (Henry nods violently to Paul.) Paul. Well, Mrs. Hawley, in a general way I am empowered by Mr. Brown to handle all his business affairs, no matter how painful, but (Henry's eager grin gives way to a worried look) I haven't heard him say that he wanted to sell the picture. „., . Sophie. What? (Henry frowns and nods his head violently. Paul signals to Sophie to shut up.) Mrs. Hawley. {Taking check book and fountain pen from hand bag.) I've taken a fancy to the picture. Not that it 52 FIFTY-FIFTY amounts to much^ of course, but I rather like it. May I write you a check for twenty dollars? Paul. What? {Pretends not to see Henry, who is nodding at him.) __ ..^ ^ Mrs. Hawley. Twenty dollars? Or perhaps you would prefer the cash ? _, Paul. As an initial payment on the picture, Mrs. Hawley? Mrs. Hawley. Why — no. I — er — thought that Mr. — er — your friend might consider that a reasonable figure. Paul. (As though explaining something to a child.) My dear Mrs. Hawley, perhaps if Henry knew you fancied the thing, and you were to ask him for it, he would be delighted to present it to you as a gift. But as for twenty dollars — well — really (Shrugs hope- Mrs. Hawley. (^Apologetically.) I see. Well, what price do you think that Mr. Brown would consider — equitable? Paul. As I was about to say, I don't know about his want- ing to sell the picture. You see, he's taken quite a fancy to it himself. It's so — symbolic. People wonder what it means, and he won't tell them. Mrs. Hawley. That's why I want it. It's so unusual. May. It certainly is unusual. FIFTY-FIFTY 63 Mrs. Hawley. I'm a woman of few words. An artist will sell any picture if he can get enough. What does Mr. Brown expect for it.'' _ Paul. If you knew what he really expected for it when he painted it^ Mrs. Hawley^ I am sure it would stagger you. j^ feOPHIE. I'm afraid it would. Mrs. Hawley. Well, speak up^ young man. What is the price .^ Paul. I'm desperately sorry^ Mrs. Hawley, but {All this time Henry is trying in vain to flag Paul, and showing signs of going crazy.) Mrs. Hawley. Very well. I dare say it was only an idle whim, any- way. Come, young ladies, we'd better be Paul. (Frightened by his own bluff.) One moment, please, Mrs. Hawley. If Mr. Brown knew how much you really cared for the picture, per- haps he might be willing to let it go. Somewhere where it would get a kind home — I mean to say Mrs. Hawley. Now you're talking reasonably. At what jDrice? Paul. I don't think Mr. Brown could put a sordid com- mercial price on it. Intrinsically, of course, it is worth a small fortune. But shall we arrange this on a basis of sentiment? I remember way back when Henry was a struggling young artist, before he had achieved sue- 54 F I F T Y - F I F T Y cess, that he said he would gladly sell his first canvas for five hundred dollars. Mrs. Hawley. Five hundred dollars ! Paul. Think of it, madam; a paltry five hundred dollars. In comparison, this canvas is priceless. Mrs. Hawley. (Hesitating.) I hadn't thought that Paul. (Hastily.') Of course you hadn't thought ! Imagine getting a Brown — a genuine Henry Brown — for a mere song. Imagine, Mrs. Hawley, when that canvas hangs in the place of honor in your home, you will be the envy of art connoisseurs the nation over. They will flock to you from every side. They will beg, beseech and implore you to sell it. They will offer you fabulous sums for its possession. But no ! You are a true lover of art, and you will cherish this picture, and hand it down to your children as an heirloom and a sacred trust, because you got it direct from the artist's studio, and it came to you as a gift — almost. Mrs. Hawley. I hadn't known Is he as popular as all that? Paul. Popular? Mysterious and misunderstood, Mrs. Hawley. And popular? You'd be surprised. Mrs. Hawley. Odd that I never heard of him. (Looks at picture.) Why, it isn't even signed. FIFTY-FIFTY 55 Paul. Isn't it? {Examines picture.) Oh, that's my mis- take. {Takes brush, touches it to palette and marks cor- ner of picture.) He paints 'em and I sign 'em. Mrs. Hawley. {Leaning over and looking.) How odd ! Paul. {Finger to lips.) S-h. That's part of the mystery! {Removes picture from easel and hands it to her with a flourish.) And you, Mrs. Hawley, are the first one to know who he really is! ^^ Mrs. Hawley. I'll take it with me. And I'll give you a check. {Sits at table and writes, tvhile Paul finds newspaper and bit of string and wraps the picture.) Paul. It's all yours, Mrs. Hawley. And I congratulate you on your artistic perspicacity. I hope Henry won't mind. He's so temperamental. And you have a bargain. No, not a bargain — a gift. Henry says I'm no business man. I've forgotten how many thousand he expected for that canvas. But {airily) no matter. He can do another one this afternoon. Mrs. Hawley. {Rising, handing him check and taking picture.) Thank you, Mr. Green; I can't begin to thank you Paul. Then don't try. It's a pleasure. I can't begin to tell you {eyeing check furtively) what your little visit has meant. Henry will be heartbroken to have missed you. I only hope he won't be too awfully angry at me for selling his picture. 56 FIFTY-FIFTY {The three women have completed their preparations for leaving, and are now near the door, which Paul opens.) Mrs. Hawley. {As she goes out, holding the picture like a treasure, and giving him her free hand.) Good-bye, Mr. Green; it was so good of you. Paul. {Taking her hand and bowing low.) A pleasure, Mrs. Hawley. And I must have Henry meet you. It should mean a great deal to him. Mrs. Hawley. By all means. {Exit.) May. Good-bye, Mr. Green. {Extends hand.) Paul. {Takes her hand in both of his.) Good-bye, Miss Dexter. I trust I may see you soon *«"'"• May. {Smilingly.) Possibly. {Exit.) Paul. {As Sophie is about to follow them out, he seizes her warmly by the hand.) Come again when you've got more company. You're all right ! Sophie. {With mock formality, but laughing, and waving a fare- well toward the screen.) Good day, Mr. Green. {Exit.) Paul. {Calling out the door.) Look out for the third step, ladies. Good-bye. So FIFTY-FIFTY 57 glad you called. Good-bye! (^The women call good-byes from off stage. Paul closes the door and leans limply against it. Henry has come out from behind screen. He appears somewhat dazed.) Henry. Five hundred dollars ! Paul. Five hundred smackers. Count 'em. Son, I guess we don't sleep in the park for a spell yet. Henry. And you sold it upside down ! I nearly had heart failure when I saw her going to it. Paul. Well, after she saw it she certainly went to it. {The light of inspiration dawns on his face.) Henry! Get busy with your old brushes. {Drags out a partly finished painting while talking, and sets it on easel.) YouVe going to do another masterpiece — and sell it ! Henry. The shock was too great for you on an empty stomach. „ Paul. I'm talking sense. You can do it. Henry. I can paint 'em. But how can I sell 'em? Paul. Upside down ! ..^ ^ Henry. {As the great idea dawns on him.) Old pal, I think you've said something. What'll I paint ? Ti ^ Paul, You might use a bottle of laundry bluing this time. and call it "A Sunset in the Alps." Get busy. 58 FIFTY-FIFTY Henry. {With a fresh inspiration.) Get busy yourself. This is a fifty-fifty concern. Sauce for gander is sauce for the goose. {Strides to table and grabs Henry's story.) Look here. (Reads.) "It was a cold^ dark^ damp and dismal evening. The street lights shone fitfully and were reflected on the wet and slippery " Good night ! That's probably as far as the editor got. But listen here. (Turns to final page.) Here's your mushy finish. "As she gave her lips to him freely, gladly, he folded her in a long and tender embrace." ^ Paul. Well? „ Henry. Well.^ There's the beginning of your story right there. Is there a woman living who could read that far and then lay it down? Upside down, old kid! Get busy ! ^ Paul. Suffering tomato cans ! Why not ? Wait a minute. A bird in the hand. Wait till I cash the check. (Takes it from table.) __ Henry. Let me see if it's real. Paul. (Looking at it.) Confound it, it's made out to you! Henry. (Taking it.) Well, why not? I painted the picture. (Looks affec- tionately at check and then absent-mindedly places it in side pocket of robe.) ^ But I sold it for you. You'd have grabbed her twenty dollars like a piker. I got five hundred. Well, FIFTY-FIFTY 59 you've got to toddle out to the bank. It isn't your turn, but you can borrow the clothes. Now hurry. {They start preparing to make the exchange when there is an imperative rapping at the door, and they both scamper behind screen. During the next few speeches they are seen to be going through the motions of exchanging clothing. This can be registered by motion behind screen, raising and lowering of heads, etc.) Paul. {Calls over screen.) Don't come in if you're a lady ! Mrs. Podge opens the door and walks in, with fire in her eye. Mrs. Podge. Don't you worry. No more ladies won't come in here — not while I'm conscious ! Henry. (Calls over the screen.) What's the matter? Mrs. Podge. I hadn't hardly turned my back and they was three of 'em in here — three! ^ Paul. Mrs. Podge, you certainly are infallible at mathe- matics. ,, „ Mrs. Podge. This is the last of it! Henry. But you don't understand. Mrs. Podge. {Darkly.) I hope I don't. I gave you till tomorrow, but I've changed my mind. Out you go, tliis very day ! 60 FIFTY-FIFTY Paul, Wait a minute and let me say something. Mrs. Podge. I've let you say too much already! This is the last of it, do you hear? The last of it! Paul. Merciful providence, I hope not! This is just the first of it. TVT T^ Mrs. Podge. Well, of all the {She is amazed at his indiffer- ence.) T^ ^ Paul. How much did you say our bill was, Mrs. Podge? Mrs. Podge. You know very well. Twenty-five dollars, not count- ins the washing. ^ ^ ^ Paul. Make a note of it, Henry. Two tens and a five — not counting the washing. Henry And how much is the washing, Mrs. Podge? Mrs. Podge. You needn't try to string me no more. Out you go this very day. ^^^^^ Right. This very minute — or maybe two minutes. I'm dressing now. _, * Paul. (Conies from behind screen, wearing Henry's robe.) It's embarrassing to have to receive you in this informal attire, Mrs. Podge, especially when it's my day to wear Henry's clothes. But you'll overlook it, I know. (Calls toward screen.) Henry, this sort of thing won't do at all. We must have larger quarters; we really must, (To Mrs. Podge.) Mrs. Podge, you FIFTY-FIFTY 61_ may as well dust out the vacant room next door. {Point- ing to door up left.) It's small, but 'twill serve. But first please bring up our linen. I'd like to have a com- plete change after I freshen up with me tub. {He speaks in a very blase manner.) Mrs. Podge. What kind of nonsense is this.^ Paul. Nothing, Mrs. Podge, only the ladies to whom you so unreasonably objected were here to examine Mr. Brown's paintings. He sold them one, that's all. Mrs. Podge. {Incredulously. ) Sold it? (Paul nods smilingly.) Sold a picture? (Paul nods.) Sold one of those there pictures that he paints? (Paul nods.) Well, will wonders never cease! {Suspiciously.) I don't believe it! Let me see the money. How much did he get? Henry. {Coming from behind screen, fully dressed.) A check for five hundred dollars, Mrs. Podge. That's all. Five hundred dollars. Mrs. Podge. {Incredulously .) Let me see the check! Henry. {Hurrying toward door.) I'll do better than that, Mrs. Podge. I'll let you see the money. {Hasty exit into hall.) Mrs. Podge. {With pathetic earnestness.) Is it true, Mr. Green? Did he really sell the picture for five hundred dollars ? You aren't j okin', are you ? 62 FIFTY-FIFTY Paul. Letting Henry wear our fifty-fifty suit when it's my day to wear it? That wouldn't be a joke, Mrs. Podge. That would be a tragedy. Mrs. Podge. And he got the money? Paul. {Idly dropping his hand into the pocket of the robe.) Same thing. He got a check. He's on his way now to the bank to (Stops short as he draws the check from the pocket where Henry thrust it. Looks at it and rushes to door. Yells off through door.) Henry! Come back! You forgot the check! (Waits a moment and then returns.) No use. He's half way there by this time. He'll be back for it quick enough. There it is, Mrs. Podge. Look. "Pay to the order of Henry Brown five hundred dollars." And it's signed^ too. Mrs. Podge. Then I'll get paid for the five weeks after all ! Paul.^ You bet you will, old girl. And many more weeks to come. That is, if you want us to stay. Mrs. Podge. Oh, mistakes will happen, Mr. Green. And now I'll fetch your linen. And I'll make O'Malley bring your suits in a hurry. (Hustling to door.) Five hundred dollars ! And just to think this morning I was going to (Exit, talking to herself.) (Paul looks adoringly at the check, kisses it, returns it to his pocket and goes to easel, where he stands meditating over the possibilities of the next "master- piece.'*) FIFTY-FIFTY 63 As Paul stands there, with his back toward the door, Sophie creeps softly into the room. As she is approaching on tiptoe the man in the lounging robe, whom she thinks to be Henry, Mrs. Podge comes in with a large basket of fresh laundry. Seeing Sophie, she stops in the doorway. Sophie creeps up to Paul to take him by surprise. Sophie. (Throwing her arms around him.) Dearest! Isn't it wonderful? Mrs. Podge. (Letting the basket fall, screams.) Mr. Green ! And you a married man ! Sophie. (Seeing her mistake.) Paul ! Why — I thought (She grows limp and falls in Paul's arms just as — ) (Henry rushes breathlessly in.) Henry. I forgot the check. I left it- tioji.) Sophie! Paul' (Seeing the situa- SOPHIE. Henry! I didn't know. (She breaks away from Paul.) Neither did I. Let me explain- Henry. (Bryly.) Paul. Mrs. Podge. Hmph! Married men can explain anything. (Goes to Sophie and faces her, pointing eloquently.) Out you go — you vampire; 64 FIFTY-FIFTY Sophie. (Starts towurd Henry.) Henry, won't you listen to me? I (Henry faces her coldly, relentlessly, with proudly folded arms. She turns to Paul.) Paul, won't you explain to him how Paul. (Patting her tenderly on shoulder.') Temperament, child. You'd better run along. I'll handle him when he cools off. (Sophie, with a last pleading looJc at Henry, and with her clenched hand at her lips as though forcing back the tears, goes un- happily out of the door. Mrs. Podge goes out after her, and closes the door.) Henry. (Dramatically .) One of us must go ! Paul. (Cheerfully.) Well, you're dressed and I'm not. Here's the check. (Hands him the check.) And don't forget to put the money in your inside pocket — and button your coat. Henry. (Crumples the check into a ball and hurls it away.) Paul. (Retreiving the check and smoothing it out.) My, aren't you careless with our money. (Hands him the check again and speaks soothingly, as though to a spunky child.) Now toddle along to the bank, and when you come back I'll tell you all about how Sophie happened to Henry. (Putting the check carefully in his pocket, but speak- ing dramatically.) "Sophie !" Never mention that woman's name to me FIFTY-FIFTY 65 again! (Strides gloomily to the door, makes sure he has the check and goes out.) Paul. (Looks after him a moment, then sits down at his typewriter and feeds a fresh sheet of paper into it. Looks smilingly toward the door and heaves a deep sigh.) Oh, gosh! Ain't love grand! (Turns to last page of old manuscript and glances at it, starts pounding his typewriter, and — ) The Curtain Falls. FIFTY-FIFTY The Second Act. Scene: Morning, a week later. Same as The First Act, except with a few slight changes. The bed and screen have been removed. Milk bottles on the dresser now hold flowers of different kinds, and a few better pieces of furniture have been substituted for the most dilapidated ones. Two books are on the table, and the former litter has been tidied up. A new hat is on the bureau. The left door, leading to the sleeping room, is open, with the foot of the bed visible, and the right door, leading to the hall, is ajar. When the curtain rises, Henry and Paul are asleep in the bed in the sleeping room, the outline of their feet showing under the covers. Immediately after rise they snore loudly two or three times. Mrs. Podge, cautiously pushing further open the door from the hall, enters, and heavy footsteps are heard following her. She carries a breakfast tray, with toast, coffee and fruit attractively prepared. Mrs. Podge. (Calling softly back into hall.) Come right along up, Mr. O'Malley. (Hearing a loud snore from the sleeping room, she starts, then puts tray on table, crosses on tiptoes, gently closes bedroom door and returns to center, while — ) O'Malley enters from the hall, puffing loudly. He carries two cardboard suit boxes. He looks around in surprise at the improved appearance of the room. 67 FIFTY-FIFTY Mrs. Podge. {After closing sleeping room door.) The poor gentlemen are completely non-compus- mentus from the death of Mr. Green's wife. O'Malley. (Puts boxes on bureau.) Whew! (Mops forehead with handkerchief.) Faith, 'tis a load f'r a auto truck! (Looks about.) But where are the fine young gentlemen? Mrs. Podge. Sh! (Indicates left door.) In there, fast asleep. What with the grief and excitement of it all, it's not to be wondered at. But what you got in them bundles, Mr. O'Malley? „,^^ O Malley. Sure, it's some new clothes for the gentlemen, that some tailor just sent up. Mrs. Podge. Well now, isn't that fine ! O'Malley. And thin I thought as how they'd be wantin' their things kind o' pressed up, like, so I just brung 'em up meself. ^^ ^ Mrs. Podge. (Shaking her head.) Poor fellow. And to think it happened just when their fortune turned for the better, too. O'Malley. Whisper. How did Mr. Green act when he got the news that his wife was dead? Mrs. Podge. I don't know. He started to tell me and then got high-sterics ; Mr. Brown had to finish it. It was all in FIFTY-FIFTY 69 confidence. And I didn't tell nobody either, O'Malley. I ain't a gossip. You know I ain't. I didn't even tell you. All I told was some young fellow that came around asking about him, before I thought. And the next day it was in the papers. O'Malley. 'Tis a strange world. Maybe they fought like cats an' dogs, I dunno. But to have it happen — so suddent an' all — well, peace to her ashes. Mrs. Podge. You have a kind heart, Mr. O'Malley. (Picks up boxes from bureau.) Just like Mr. Podge. (Goes to bedroom door.) Mr. Podge was surely a kind-hearted man. (Deposits boxes inside, nearly closes door and comes back to center.) O'Malley. (Significantly.) He was the same. He went away from you and never came back. No man could do more. Mrs. Podge. That's true. The gentlemen will have a pleasant surprise when they wake up and find all them clothes. O'Malley. (Surveying room.) 'Tis fixed up ye are since last week, ma'am. Ye have new furniture, and flowers — where did all the flowers come from, Mrs. Podge? Mrs. Podge. They were sent by loving friends to express sym- pathy for Mr. Green's great loss. O'Malley. Faith, have the fine gentlemen taken another room? 70 FIFTY-FIFTY Mrs. Podge. Yes^ they now occupy a whole suite. Money has no limitations. ^,^^ O Malley. (^Glancing at tray.) And breakfast in bed^ just like the king himself. (Starts to go.) Well, good luck to ye. Give my regards to the fine young gentlemen. (Stops.) Oh, I just happened to think. (Slyly.) Me brother is an under- taker. Do ye mind speaking a word or two fer him to the fine young gentlemen? (Short pause.) He might as well bury her as any other man. He's been an un- dertaker many the year now and never a complaint from a single customer. (Start to go.) Good-day, Mrs. Podge. See ye later. (Turns.) And don't forget to mention me brother. (Goes out into the hall.) (Mrs. Podge fusses busily about the room for a mo- ment, arranging the flowers and ^'tidying up/' and then turns toward hall door with the intention of leaving, but stops as Henry and Paul begin speaking.) Henry. (Off left.) Say, Paul, that's my coat. Paul. (Off left.) Go way, son; how many coats do you want to wear at one time.^ Henry. (Off left.) All right, go ahead. It doesn't fit you anyhow and I hope the trousers choke you. • Mrs. Podge. (Calling.) Is everything all right, Mr. Brown.? FIFTY-FIFTY 71 Henry. (Sticks head out of door.) Oh, hello ! Merry Christmas ! (Sees tray.) Mrs. Podge. This ain't Christmas. Henry. (At door.) No? Well, by golly, Santa Claus has been here. (Calls back.) Paul, you ought to see what I see on Paul. (Off left.) Henry. the table. What.f^ Breakfast. Attaboy Paul. (Off left.) Mrs. Podge. 'Twas only me and Mr. O'Malley. How does he feel now after the terrible shock? Henry. (Withdrawing head.) Fine as silk, Mrs. Podge. Paul. (Off left.) But there's an awful edge on our appetites. Gee, but this fresh linen is a treat. If any more junk comes, flip it in, won't you, dearie? Mrs. Podge. (Kittenish.) Don't you call me dearie, you young scamp. (Going to hall door.) You think because you're a widower that you can act up — but you can't; not with me. (Ea^its to hall.) 72 FIFTY-FIFTY Paul bounces from sleeping room. He is attired in neat gray business suit, with wide, black mourning rib- bon about left coat sleeve. Paul. Oh, is that so? Huh! She's gone. Henry enters from sleeping room. He also is pros- perously dressed. Henry. The old fire-eater gone? (Gives a final tug at tie.) Paul. Yes; fired a verbal centimeter and retreated. (Looks critically at Henry.) Say, you'll do. (Turns about for Henry^s inspection.) How's me? (Sits at table and starts to eat.) Henry. Very much to the mustard, if you ask. (Sits oppo- site and eats.) Paul. Well, we've started the ball rolling — and you see the results. (Waves a hand.) Flowers, new furnish- ings, large and airy sleeping apartment, new clothes, fresh linen and — Henry. (Sarcastically.) And a fine write-up in the newspapers about the death of the wife of the famous author and play- wright, Paul Green. How in thunder did that beautiful lie of yours leak out? ^ Paul. I had to fix it up somehow with Mrs. Podge, didn't I, if I ever wanted to see May Dexter again? So I told her my wife was dead. Henry. She must have passed it along. FIFTY-FIFTY 73 Paul. I swore her to secrecy. How did I know that she was going to — } {Cheerfully.) But what's the odds.^ Last week I was a nobody, and you were ditto. Now you're selling 'em as fast as you can paint 'em, and I'm booked for a piece of fiction next week in every Sunday supplement in town. Barnum was right. I tell you, son, the public Uhes to be humbugged. Henry. Yes, and a fine fakir I must look like to Sophie. Paul. {Soothingly.) Now, son, Sophie knows just why we made up tha.t stuff. We did it for her sake. Just try not to have any more hair-pulling contests with her, that's all. It's abo-ut all I could do to square you after the last one. Henry. I know it. I was a fool to be suspicious. But things did look bad. _, Paul. Cheer up. They look good now. If only th^at news- paper story doesn't — {He is interrupted by a smart rap on the hall door. The pals exchange startled glances, and stop eating.) Paul. {Guardedly.) Now what? Henry. {In a loud whisper.) The police ! They're after us for false pretenses. Paul. {Whispers.) Be brave. Ask the gentleman in. 74 FIFTY-FIFTY Henry. Use your voice. I can't find mine. Paul. I will. {The rap is repeated.) I shall show you that I am a brave man. (His knees knock together and he calls in a very weak voice.) C-come in. (The rapping is repeated, and he speaks in a somewhat louder tone.) Come in. Sophie enters from the hall. She is dressed in the costume of a Spanish dancer. Sophie. (Gaily.) Why so mysterious? It looks like a dynamite plot. Paul. Ah, good morning, merry sunshine. I see we have a little model in our home. Sophie. (To Henry.) This is the last time I'm to pose, isn't it.'' And then the picture will be finished? Henry. (Going to easel.) Surprise. I finished it yesterday, after you had left. (Removes the stretcher and hands it to her.) Sophie. (Admiring it.) Isn't that a peach? (Shows it to Paul.) Look, Paul; portrait of Sophie Bland, the famous character dancer, by Henry Brown, the famous portrait painter. Paul. (Looks at it approvingly.) Humdinger. Son, you can paint real pictures when FIFTY-FIFTY 75 you want to. But you don't want to very often. Well, the public likes trash. {Takes red flower from vase and places it jauntily in Sophie^s hair,) Pardon me while I shed a few remorseful tears. Sophie. What's the grand idea.^ Paul. A fragrant blossom from the grave of my late la- mented. _ hOPHIE. Are they still coming? Paul. Flowers in the hands of every delivery boy in town, and letters of sympathy by every mail. We share the flowers fifty-fifty, but I give the letters to Henry. Anybody that falls for this publicity bunk is a good prospect for one of his famous hand-painted what-is- its. And the business it is bringing him — you've no idea. {Waves toward table.) Have some breakfast. Sophie. {Laughing .) It's a frightfully good joke, the whole thing. I'd no idea you and Henry were so clever. {Picks up a slice of toast and nibbles at it.) Henry. Give Paul all the credit. We'll be lucky if we don't land in jail. p^^^ The grand initial hunch was yours, son. Henry. What do you mean.^ _^ ^ Paul. My poor departed wife in Milwaukee — {mock sad- 76 FIFTY-FIFTY ness) heaven rest her soul! {To Sophie.) But speak- ing of paradise, where's May — I mean Miss Dexter? Sophie. May Dexter.^ You seem to have been impressed. Henry. {Joyously.^ Paul Green, the woman hater! Paul. Oh, well, I have to celebrate some way. There's one bit of our sudden good luck that I've been- keeping to myself. _ Sophie. What's become of the fifty-fifty partnership .'' Paul. It's still good. I've just been holding this up my sleeve. You see I — that is — well, just as I was in the throes of grief over my crushing loss — darned if I didn't have a musical comedy accepted! Sophie. {At table.) Paul! Isn't that wonderful! Broadway at last! Henry. Old man — is that on the level? Paul. I am starting the day right, by way of a change, by telling the gospel truth. This last show at the Rose- bud Garden isn't panning out, and they're putting my show under rehearsal right away, as a pinch hitter. Sophie. {Drops the toast.) Where — where did you say they're putting it on? FIFTY-FIFTY 77 Paul. At the Rosebud Garden. Sophie. {Stunned.) Oh! Henry. {Not noticing.) That's where the tired business man hangs out, isn't it? ^ Paul. You've said it. Nothing highbrow. Singing, dancing, novelty stuff — and a few jokes. All I do is write the dialogues and warm over the jokes. But — oh, boy — there's money in it. (To Sophie.) Where's May Dex- ter? I want to spend my advance royalties on a din- ner with her. „ Sophie. It's a funny thing about May. She hasn't been home since that day she was here with me. Paul. Abducted ! ^ SOPHIE. Nothing like that. You don't know May as I do, or you wouldn't worry. She's probably become a play- ground teacher or a movie actress or something. She's always plunging into new ideas. And the strange thing is that she always makes good at whatever she tries. Henry. That's odd. She didn't look like the adventurous *yp^- pacl. I doped her for a shrinking little violet. Cute little trick, though. I liked her, hanged if I didn't. Henry. (Dryly.) One can guess as much. 78 FIFTY-FIFTY Paul. But then why did she pull all that ingenue stuff? She acted as if she'd never been out of her own back ^ ' Sophie. Oh^ that was just for her aunt's benefit. Mrs. Haw- ley doesn't approve of modernism — in the young — and so May humors her. Her aunt almost went wild when darling little niece went to college. And she's been wild half of the time since. Believe me,, Paul, that girl is a handful. (Teasingly.) Better be careful, if you don't want a modern woman! Paul. (Emphatically.) I think more of her already. That's just what I do want. The man who thinks a wife is a creature whose one object in life is to bring his slippers and light his pipe, and see that his eggs are cooked exactly three minutes, is dead from the neck up. When I marry, I don't want a hand-trained hired girl. I want a good fellow — a pal — a regular playmate. Fifty-fifty. Henry. I suppose all this is a dig at me. Well, we aren't all built alike. I claim that there's just one place for a woman and — _ feOPHlE. (Cuts in and speaks mechanically, as though reciting.) And that place is in the home. Oh, I've heard all that before. _ Paul. See here. What are you kids doing? Trying to start another war? Henry, stop picking on her. Henry. I have a right to object to her livelihood now. I'm making a good living and can afford to marry. FIFTY 'FIFTY 79 Paul. Right now you are. But wait till the dear fickle public gets time to think it over. You may find that pictures may come and pictures may go, but twinkling tootsies prance on forever. {To Sophie.) How goes the job, fair one.'* Sophie. {Striving to conceal her worry.) I — I don't know. Maybe the time will come when I'll have to listen to Henry on his own terms. Henry. Ah! Now you're showing good sense. Paul. {Annoyed.) Cut out that I-told-you-so croak. {To Sophie.) What's gone wrong, kid? Sophie. I don't know. Maybe nothing. But I just heard that — that our show was going to close. I hadn't heard of it before, and I'm rather — upset. {Bravely.) May- be it's just a rumor. Paul. What show is it you're dancing in, Sophie? Why won't you tell us? Sophie. Not until Henry changes his unreasonable attitude. Or when there's — nothing left — then I'll listen to him. {With sudden determination.) But, I'm not through yet! _ ^ Paul. {Admiringly.) Attaboy ! Henry. {Pulling his hair.) 3^he same thing, over and over again. I'm unreason- 80 FIFTY-FIFTY able! I'm dictatorial! I'm — Why, to hear you peo- ple talk a person would think that I want to be a regular slave driver! You madden me, Sophie Bland. You deliberately madden me! And you, Paul! You tell me that I'm dead from the neck up. That I want to make a household drudge of — Paul. Oh, turn off the steam, turn off the steam ! You're boiling over. Henry. Ugh! {With a grunt of great disgust he gets a fresh canvas and places it on the easel.) Dancing! All you want to do is dance! Sophie. (Calmly.) You used to make me cry when you raved like that, Henry. But now you make me laugh. Dancing? Yes; I love it. And the people love it. What are we all trying to do, anyway, but amuse the public? You with your pictures, Paul with his stories and plays, I with my dancing? It's all pretty much the same thing, after all. Only we go at it in different ways — each of us through the medium that appeals to us, and for which we are fitted. The difference is that you are laughing at your public — the silly public that goes at its amuse^ ment so seriously — that buys freak pictures — Henry. Freak pictures? Mine? Sophie. (Deliberately.) Freak pictures, I said. You know they're freak pic- tures. You sell them upside down, don't you? Oh, whatever else you are, Henry, don't be a hypocrite FIFTY-FIFTY 8^ among your own friends. Your patrons buy your freak pictures because they happen to be a fad — a highbrow fad. They think it is the smart, fashionable, highbrow thing to do. They kid themselves that they are patrons of the arts. They pretend to find a beautiful, soulful symbolism in a daub that the health department wouldn't allow to be pasted on the city ash cans. A hypocrite, catering to hypocrites. That's your art. Henry. {Sulkily.) Well, we won't argue that. But you've talked so much about your art. What's your art, as you call it? Sophie. My art.'^ Why, entertainment — simple and uncamou- flaged. It is as though they came to me frankly and said, "We're tired. We wish to be entertained. Make us forget our sorrows and our troubles and all the labors of the workaday world." They ask for something frank- ly entertaining — something pretty; no more. And I try to give it to them; no less. Something pretty, Henry, like this picture here that you have made of me in my Spanish dancing costume. Nothing like — the stuff you are selling. Oh, Henry, why don't you paint pictures like this? Henry. {Scornfully.) That daub? That isn't art. That's lowbrow poster technique. Dub stuff. {Resumes painting.) Sophie. Then why did you paint it? Henry. {Without looking up.) To amuse you. 82 FIFTY-FIFTY Sophie. {Bowing low.^ As an humble representative of the poor, miserable public, I thank you. Henry. (Sarcastically.) Well, have you finished your lecture on the virtues of the art of dancing versus the evils of the art of painting.? Sophie. Just about. You said I loved dancing, Henry. Well, I do. And what's more, I'm going to promise you one little thing. I'm going to make you love it, Henry. Before I get through I'm going to make you dance! (She delivers her last line emphatically — half seriously, half laughingly — and then runs out into the hall, clos- ing the door after her.) Paul. (Who has lighted a pipe and sat in the easy chair, listening philosophically and appreciatively.) Attaboy, Sophie! (Kiddingly.) Son, did you hear that? She's going to make you dance. And take it from your dear old uncle Paul, she's the girl that can do it. Henry. (Busily painting,) Rats ! Paul. And speaking of rats, Henry, when it comes to handling women you have a head like a piece of cheese. Henry. (Curtly.) That's my business. „ ^ Paul. Your business? Then you're going to be a business failure. FIFTY-FIFTY 83 Henry. Oh, cut it out. How much did you get for that Rose- bud Garden show? Paul. (Casually.) A few hundred, I forget. Just a small advance. I can't bother my head with trifles. Henry. (Dropping his brushes, and with a sudden brightness of manner.) Let's get Sophie and go out and have a big spread and celebrate. „ Paul. Get Sophie? You poor dub! Fat chance of her ever speaking to you again. Henry. Oh, I'll apologize. I always do. Paul. You bet you always do. But you'll do it some day, son, and find that it doesn't work. Let's wait till Sophie finds May. Then we can make it a foursome. (Going to table.) Anyway, I've work to do. (Putting sheet of paper in typewriter.) Don't interrupt me. I am about to fan the spark of genius. (Henry continues painting and Paul has hardly started pounding the typewriter when there is a knock at the hall door. They are both engrossed and do not hear it. After the knocking is twice repeated the door opens and — ) May enters. She wears a tailored suit that is busi- ness-like but none the less fetching. She has thrown off the ingenuousness of The First Act, and is now thor- oughly self-possessed. But her easy manner is too well' 84 FIFTY-FIFTY bred ever to he mistaken for forwardness. She stands in the doorway a moment and then speaks. Her tone is thoroughly impersonal. May. I heard the typewriter, so I knew you were too busy to hear me, and I took the- libertj; of walking in. Paul. (Looking up and seeing her, is too dumbfounded to rise.) May! May. (Politely correcting him.) Miss Dexter. I have had the pleasure of meet- ing you, I believe. Paul. (Jumping up.) Gee, I'm sure glad to see you! Where in thunder have you been? We've all been worried sick. (Calls to Henry, who has risen and whom May has not noticed before.) Henry, come here. Miss Dexter, this is Henry Brown, my pal. Henry, Miss Dexter was with Mrs. Hawley when she discovered your painting. Henry. (Taking her hand.) Why, surely I remember Miss Dexter, of course^ I — May. You remember me? I don't understand. Paul. (Hastily.) What he means by that is that he has heard me speak of you so often that it doesn't seem to him like a first meeting. Just like old friends, you know. FIFTY-FIFTY 85 Henry. We thought you were lost. Mr. Green was thinking of notifying the police. ^ Patjl. But then Sophie told us not to worry about you be- cause you were always getting crazy ideas — that is — I mean — May. (^Laughing heartily.^ Sophie was right. No one ever needs to worry about me. You see, I'm a business woman now; or is it a profession.'' I'm not sure which. Anyway, I'm on the staff of the Sunday "Press." Paul. You don't say so! Well, isn't that fine. Now that you've broken into the world of Bohemia, so to speak, I hope we can see a lot of each other. I have a fine idea ! Henry. (Half aside.) Another fine idea. _, Paul. We'll get Sophie, and the four of us will go out and have a little party somewhere — for luncheon. Or would you rather make it this evening? May. (In a reserved tone.) My call is not of a social nature, Mr. Green. And I'm sure you haven't stopped to think ho-w it would look. Paul. It couldn't help but look great to me, if you were there. , , May. (Quietly.) I know I have been very tardy in expressing my sympathy. 86 FIFTY-FIFTY 1 r Paul. Your sympathy? May. It was all such a — a surprise to me. You see, I didn't know — Sophie hadn't told me — Henry. (Aside to PaItl, who has forgotten all about his bereavement.) Milwaukee ! Milwaukee ! Paul. Huh.'' (Remembers.) Oh, yes; of course. Thank you very much. Miss Dexter, I appreciate your apology — I mean your sympathy. Very good of you to call, I am sure. And I hope this is but the first of many — May. (Distantly.) This is purely a business call, Mr. Green. Paul. Business? Oh, to be sure. You were telling us that you are on the Sunday staff of the "Press." It sure was fine of them to order that batch of stories from me. May. Wasn't it a blessing that the order came just at a time to take your mind off of your bereavement? Paul. My bereavement? Oh, yes; quite so. Now what about those stories, Miss Dexter? May. It is Mr. Brown whom I came to see. Henry. (Alarmed.) Me? Say, don't drag me into this thing! It was all Paul's idea. F I F T Y - F I F T Y 87 (May looks at Henry in quick surprise.) Paul. (Quickly.) I apologize for him, Miss Dexter. He thought you said something else. Poor fellow, he is all broken up. May. (PuBsled.) Mr. Brown is? I don't understand. Paul. It was a great shock to him. I foresaw the end long ago, and was reconciled. But Henry — well, poor fellow— j^^y He knew her, too? Paul Indeed he did. Long before I did, in fact. Didn't you Henry? jjenry. Did I? P,^,. (To May, with a significant gesture.) You see how he is? Why, it was through Henry that I first heard of her. Wasn't it, Henry? Henry. Was it? May. Really! But it must be painful for you to discuss the subject— p^^^. Painful? It hurts to even think of it. Henry got me into the whole thing. Didn't you, Henry? May. I am sure you are not feeling quite yourself, Mr. Green, to discuss your domestic affairs with me. (To Henry.) My paper sent me, Mr. Brown, to interview you about that picture. . Henry. What picture? 88 FIFTY-FIFTY May. The picture that was stolen. Henry. Stolen ? ^ Paul. {Trying to signal to Henry to bluff.) Ah, the stolen picture. That's what you came to see us about. May. {Mildly correcting him.) That's what I came to see Mr. Brown about. Henry. What picture? I didn't steal a picture. Paul. {Still trying to signal him.) I fear the secret is out, dear old pal. You may as well be frank about it. Henry. I don't know what you're talking about. May. Do you mean to deny, Mr. Brown, that one of your valuable paintings has mysteriously disappeared from your studio? We got a tip on it at the office, and the boss sent me here to get a story. Henry. I don't know what you — Paul. {Interrupting.) Henry, it is useless to struggle against fate. Some- how or other {significantly) these newspaper persons have been tipped off to the fact that one of your most priceless canvases has been stolen. And now I fear that the whole world will know of it. F I F T Y -F I F T Y Henry. Say, have you gone crazy? May. Is it possible that I — Paul. (Hastily.) He insists on sticking to it. But then — you know how artists are. Temperament — that sort of thing. (To Henry.) Really, old pal, this camouflage isn't going at all. We may as well tell the whole truth. (To May.) He didn't want it to become known, you see, because — because — well, because he shuns pub- licity. Don't you, Henry? (May looks at Henry, and Paul takes the oppor- tunity to signal violently to Henry to agree.) Henry. (Seeing him.) Why — er — yes, that's it. Paul. And the last thing in the world that he wanted to happen was to have the newspapers get hold of it. Wasn't it, Henry? (Same business as before.) Henry. (Still in the dark.) The last thing in the world. May. What's the idea of keeping it from the newspapers? Paul. Come to think of it, Henry, what was the idea of keeping it from the newspapers? 90 F IF T Y -F I F T Y Henry. (Mechanically, and not thinhing.) That's it. Keeping it from the newspapers. (May looks in bewilderment, first at Henry and then at Paul.) Paul. (To May.) Don't pay any attention to him. It's the shock. Ter- rible loss, you know. ^^ May. (Meaningly.) He doesn't seem to stand the shock as well as — some other people. _ No. Poor fellow, he's sensitive; very sensitive. May. I'm very sorry that you have had this great loss, Mr. Brown. _._ Henry. (Misunderstanding.) Not me. Paul's the fellow that lost a wife. May. You don't understand. I mean your painting. Henry. What? Oh, of course. May. My mission is not only to get further details, but to verify the story that we ran this morning. Henry. What? Was it in the paper that I had a picture stolen ? (Paul, unobserved by May, shoxvs joy that the item has been published.) ^ FIFTY-FIFTY 91 May. Yes. I don't know how the tip came in, but they used it, and then couldn't trace the source of the story. Henry. Hm. That's strange. Paul. (Innocently.^ Darned strange. And Henry does so hate his name in the papers. But I suppose it's that way with all successful artists. ,_ May. But he shouldn't object to having it in the papers. Paul. (To Henry.) You shouldn't object to having it in the papers. Do you hear that, Henry? And doesn't it surprise you? Henry. I'm hearing a lot that surprises me. May. We can probably help to expose the crime. Paul. (Alarmed.) What crime? May. The theft of the picture. Paul. (Relieved.) May. As soon as the public knows that the picture has been stolen, everyone will be on the lookout for it. Henry. Why will they? 92 FIFTY-FIFTY May. On account of its great value, for one thing. And then, of course, they'll be expecting a reward. Henry. Reward.^ I don't want any more pictures! I have more than I want now! _ Paul. {Trying to smooth it over, smiles apologetically .^ Isn't he odd ? Positively eccentric ! I never knew such another modest person in all my life. May. Now, what I want is a description of the picture, and some of the details as to how it — {She is inter- rupted by sharp rapping on the hall door.) Paul. (To May.) Excuse me. (Calls.) Come in. Mrs. Podge enters from the hall. She has three let-" ters in her hand. Mrs. Podge. Mr. Brown, they was three letters for you and I thought — (Sees May and frowns.) Henry. All that for me? In one mail? (Crosses to Mrs. Podge, eagerly takes the letters and opens them,) Paul. (Deferentially.) Mrs. Podge, this is Miss Dexter, of the Sunday "Press." Miss Dexter, Mrs. Podge, our — our — Well, she's just like a mother to us — so careful about who comes to see us, and everything. (While Mrs. Podge and May acknowledge the in- troduction, Henry is excitedly reading the letters.) FIFTY-FIFTY 93 Mrs. Podge. {To May.) They're so harum-scarum, you know, Miss Dexter. But they're nice boys — and smart — both of 'em. Seems like they're always getting their names in the paper. Well, I got to get back downstairs. No rest for the weary. Pleased to meet you. {Exit to hall.) May. {To Henry.) I was just about to ask you, Mr. Brown — Why, you seem disturbed. No bad news, I hope? Henry. {Shoving letters into his pocket.) No. I was just — surprised — that's all. You were about to ask me — May. Yes; about the picture. (Paul looJcs worried.) I would like to have a complete description of it, and the details — .-t Henry. I can't describe it. May. You can't? Why, what do you mean? Paul. You see. Miss Dexter, he's so upset over it, that — that — that he's all upset. Henry. {Pulling the letters from his pocket.) Everybody wants a description of the picture ! Listen to this. {Selects one of the letters and reads) : "Dear Mr. Brown: We note the mysterious disappearance of your valuable painting, and will be glad to put our most expert operatives on the case if you will furnish a description of same. We never fail. Blake Detective Agency." Here's another. {Reads): "Dear Friend: 94 FIFTY-FIFTY I am a graduate of the Universal Correspondence School of Criminology, and would like for you to hire me to find the stolen picture. I understand all about clues, fingerprints and etcetera. Please remit ten dollars. P. S. — What disguise do you think I ought to wear?" And listen to this. {Reads third letter) : "Dear Mr. Brown: I have heard of the loss of your picture, and wish to offer you five -thousand dollars for it when it is found. You are — " (Stops reading.) No, I can't; I'm too modest. Paul. (Takes letter from him and continues reading.) "You are one of the most gifted painters of America, as this crime will testify, and I shall be proud to have one of your canvases in my gallery. Please let me know if this offer is satisfactory. What is the subject of the picture? Very truly yours, Hamilton Colburn." (Whistles.) Whew! Hamilton Colburn, the million- aire! Henry, old son, you're going up ! (Returns letter to Henry.) May. I hate to appear impatient, but I'm a busy woman, and I've lost a great deal of time. Mr. Brown, what was the title of the stolen picture? Henry. (Startled.) The title? Paul. Yes, Henry. The title. May. It had a title, didn't it? Henry. Let me see. The title was — it was — I don't think I got around to giving it a title, did I, Paul? FIFTY-FIFTY 95 Paul. I believe that was one of the things you neglected. {To May.) He's so absentminded. May. Then what was the subject? Henry. Subject.^ ^ Paul. Surely, old fellow. Try to concentrate. It may not have had a title, but there must have been a subject Henry. I have to stop and think. The subject was — er — May. Are you sure, Mr. Brown, that a picture really has disappeared from this studio? Henry. It must be true. It's in the newspaper. I'm all mixed up. Paul, describe the picture to Miss Dexter. Paul. {Faking.) Me? How can I? I don't understand art. May. We must have some sort of a description, Mr. Brown. Paul. So you must. Well — it was Henry's favorite picture. Wasn't it, Henry? __ May. {More and more impatient.) I know. But a picture of what? Paul. Well, as I remember it, it had a lot of red paint. A terrific lot of red paint. Didn't it, Henry? 96 F I F T Y - F I F T Y May. And what did the red paint represent? Paul. It represented — let me see — oh, I remember now, perfectly ! It was a joortrait ! May. A portrait. Now we're getting somewhere! And it was a portrait of whom? Paul. Ah, that's the point. I dare not tell you who ! May. You dare not? Why not? Paul. A sacred pledge to secrecy. That must never be known at any cost. Henry. Here; what are you talking about? Paul. I've talked about enough. But I dare tell you this much. Miss Dexter: It was a portrait of a woman. May. A woman; of course. If it's a mystery, it's always a woman. „ Paul. A beautiful woman, too. A wonderful woman. Cliarming; talented; and temperamental. May. That's the kind of a woman who goes with a mystery. Paul. And she represents a — a — what do you call it? — a Spanish cigarette girl, or Carmen, or something like that, and — F I F T Y - F I F T Y 97 Henry. Here; that's enough! Do you know what you're ^^y'"8- Paul. (With mock caution.) Have I said too much, Miss Dexter? Have I been indiscreet? __ May. (Laughing in amusement, in spite of her annoyance at his peculiar conduct.) T don't think you have said enough to incriminate vourself. ^ Paul. I hope not. ... MAY, If that is all you are willing to reveal, I had best be going. By the way, Mr. Green, there's a rumor going about that a show of yours is soon to be produced. Paul. Well, yes, they say they are going to use "The Prim- rose Path" at the Rosebud Garden. May. How splendid ! I want to congratulate you. You must be very happy. ^ ^ ^^^ Paul. Happy is right. But tliat isn't what makes me happiest. ' ^ May. Has something happened that is even better tlian "^^'■' Pa... Yes. I've found you. May. Mr. Green! _. Henry. (In mock amazement.) Why, Paul, I'm surprised! 98 FIFTY-FIFTY Paul. Good Lord! I forgot. May. {To Henry.) There's just one other question, Mr. Brown, if you don't mind. I — {Again she is interrupted by knocking at the hall door.) Henry. (Welcoming the interruption.) Come in! (Mrs. Podge enters from the hall.) Mrs. Podge. Goodness me, Mr. Brown, this seems to be your busy day. They's a man downstairs with a bundle. I wouldn't leave him come up. Henry. Why not? Mrs. Podge. He said it was a picture. I said we had more 'n enough pictures and artists and things in the place already. Paul. A man with a picture? What kind of a picture? Mrs. Podge. He said it was the lost picture — whatever he was talking about. Henry. (Bewildered.) Tell him I'll be right down, Mrs. Podge. Mrs. Podge. Yes, Mr. Brown. (Starts to go.) F I F T Y 'F I F T Y 99 Paul. {Hastily.) Tell him we*ll be right down, Mrs. Podge. (Starts for door.) And we'll beat you to it. Come on, Henry. {Grabs Henry's arm and hurries with him into hall.) May. (To Mrs. Podge, who has started to follow them out.) Oh, Mrs. Podge. One moment, if you don't mind. Mrs. Podge. (Turning back.) Yes'm? May. What do you know about the stolen painting .J* Mrs. Podge. (In dismay.) Stolen? Good Lord! Have them two crazy wild men took up burglary? (Emphatically.) I'll have 'em out this very day! I've put up with them too long al- ready, the young scamps ! Stealing, is it ? I'll — May. (Quieting her with difficulty.) You misunderstood me. One of Mr. Brown's paint- ings has disappeared. It was a picture of a Spanish dancer. Did you ever see it? Mrs. Podge. Yes'm. That's his newest one. I seen it here yes- terday. (Goes to easel and stares at it blankly.) Why — it's gone! Now don't that beat all? (Excitedly.) I keep a respectable lodging house, I do, and they ain't been a breath of scandal about my — May. So much for that. There is such a picture. I was beginning to have my doubts. Now, another question. 100 FIFTY-FIFTY Mrs. Podge. Yes'm.^ May. When and where was Mrs. Green's funeral? Mrs. Podge. {Blankly .^ Funeral? I dunno^ ma'am. May. Didn't Mr. Green go away? Mrs. Podge. No, ma'am. He's been poundin' that there machine every blessed minute. ^ May. Mrs. Podge, do you know the name of Mr. Green's wife ? Mrs. Podge. No, ma'am. Only just Mrs. Paul Green, I suppose. May. Don't know anything about her? Mrs. Podge. No, ma'am. {Worrying again.) Oh, dear me, ma'am, you ain't got no more scandal about them two young harum-scarums, have you? May. I don't know. All I know is that we have made a thorough investigation in Milwaukee to learn the de- tails of the death of the wife of Paul Green, the famous author and playwright. And not only do we fail to find any such record, but we find that no Mrs. Paul Green has died there for the last two months back. Mrs. Podge. {Ominously and confidentially.) There's something queer about all this, ma*am. FIFTY-FIFTY 101 There's something queer going on in this house ! {Ex- citedly.) And me that runs a respectable lodging house and ain't never had as much as a breath of scandal — May. I'd like to talk to you further, Mrs. Podge. Mrs. Podge. {Brightening at the prospect of gossip.) Yes'm.^ May. This is hardly the proper place. Can we go below stairs, somewhere? Mrs. Podge. (Eagerly leading her out to hall.) Yes'm, we'll go right downstairs and I'll make you a cup of tea, and — (Mrs. Podge and May exit into hall, talking.) May. (Off stage.) Oh, I have no time for a cup of tea. Just a ques- tion or two — Mrs. Podge. (Off stage.) Well, I'll tell you everything I know — (Their voices die away.) After a moment Henry and Paul enter from the hall. Henry is talking as they enter. Henry. I don't see what you wanted to start anything like that for, anyway. (Closing the door.) Now, son, just leave that to me. We've started the ball rolling, haven't we? 102 FIFTY-FIFT Y Henry. Yes, but it's likely to hit something before we can stop it. Paul. What are you beefing about, old Henry W. Gloom? Look around you. {Waves a hand.) Why, old Lady Prosperity is camping right at our doorstep. Henry. But what's the big idea of this fairy story about a stolen picture.^ Paul. What was the big idea of that fairy story about my wife } Henry. Well, why did you make her die? Paul. Why did you make her live? Henry. Getting into the newspapers was the worst of it. Paul. That was the best of it. It made me famous, didn't Henry. That's what you call publicity, I suppose. Paul. Exactly; the sort of thing that press agents get paid for. Isn't that what put me on my feet? Haven't I got more orders for stories than I can write in six months ? Henry. Well— Paul. (Insistently.) Haven't I? Don't argue. You know I'm right. FIFTY-FIFTY 103 Henry. (WeaMy.) But what about the stolen — Paul. Didn't you tell a lie that made me famous? Don't we go everything fifty-fifty? Well, then! Didn't I have to tell a lie that would make you famous ? Henry. But you've started an awful — Paul. Isn't it making you famous right now? Look at those letters. Look at that man that just came — (A knock is heard on the hall door.) Come in. Mrs. Podge enters from the hall. Mrs. Podge. Mr. Brown, there's another man downstairs with an- other big bundle, and he says — Paul. (Airily dismissing her.) Tell him to wait. (Exit Mrs. Podge.) Henry. Now look at what you've — Paul. Yes, look at what I've done. I've put you on the map, Henry W. Brown, that's what I've done. Henry. It's bad business. They'll get wise, and then where will we be? We've got to kill that crazy report, some- how. 104 FIFTY-FIFTY Paul. Too late. We've burned our bridges behind us. Henry. But how will it come out? We've got to fix it so that the picture is found, somehow. Paul. Confound it, dont cross that bridge till we come to it. Henry. {Glumly.) We haven't any bridge to cross. We've burned 'em all. (Short pause. Paul is beginning to be a bit wor- ried himself.) Something tells me we're going to trip up, the first thing we know. (There is sharp rapping at the hall door.) Paul. Who do you suppose that is? Sounded like a man's knock. Henry. I can see his brass buttons from here. Paul. Go on; it's your turn to open the door. Henry. (Goes part way, hesitatingly turns and faces Paul.) I can hear myself saying, "Good morning, judge — not guilty." (Goes up to door, is about to open it, then turns again, with hand on doorknob.) Say, what's the sentence for obtaining money under false pretense? (Opens door and — ) O'Malley stands in the door with a special delivery letter. FIFTY-FIFTY \0l Henry. (With embarrassed laugh of relief,) Oh, it's you, is it, O'Malley? O'Malley. Yis, sor. Who was yez afther expectin* — the Sec- retary of State? (Or mention some celebrity, local or otherwise.) Henry. Not exactly. Where's Mrs. Podge? O'Malley. Havin' the toime of her young life. Whisper. She's intertainin' a gang of art collectors in the front parlor. (Paul and Henry exchange glances.) It's a special delivery for you, Mr. Brown, sor. {Hands envelope to Henry.) Maybe it's the missin' portrayt inside, I dunno. {Laughing at his own joke, he exits, leaving hall door open.) _ ^ ^ Paul. A special delivery? The plot is getting thicker. Henry. A thick plot is what I'd expect from a head like yours. Paul. I draw the line at puns. What's it all about? {In- dicating letter.) Henry. Wait'll I have a look. {Opens letter, check drops out. They gaze on it dumbfounded, recover and pounce on it simultaneously.) {First to grasp it, scans figures, drops limply into chair. The check falls from his trembling hands.) Merciful codfish! Henry. {Quickly swoops and picks up check, reads figures, gasps and leans against table for support.) 106 FIFTY-FIFTY Five hundred dollars ! (Stares at check in outstretched hand.) „ ^ Paul. (Straightening up.) It's a mistake or else we didn't hear the alarm clock. Henry. (Reads aloud.) "Payable to Henry Brown, $500.00." (Gleefully.) It's mine — all mine. Five hundred dollars ! (Dances madly about the room.) Come on! (Grabs hat from bureau.) ^ ^ Paul. Where? Henry. I'm going to lead you to a place where we "sit at a table covered with the snowiest of linen; where the eye is greeted with real silver, cut glass and the rarest and thinnest of china, while the soft strains of enchant- ing music seem to smile a cheery welcome, and the mellow light from the candelabra sheds its rays upon the engraved menu, while an obsequious waiter stands ready with pad and pencil poised eager to anticipate Paul. {Who meanwhile has picked up the letter and read it, suddenly interrupts.) Here; lay off that pipe dream. You haven't read the little billet doux yet. (Offers it to him.) Henry. (Tragically.) I might have known there was a trick in it some- where. (Refuses letter.) No, you read it to me. Paul. I haven't got the heart. Henry. I haven't got the nerve. FIFTY-FIFTY 107 Paul. All right, listen. (Reads.) "My dear Mr. Brown: "I have learned of your fame as an artist, and wish to have my portrait painted. I enclose check for $500 as a retainer. I want the best, regardless of expense. I will call tomorrow for the first sitting. Yours very truly, Roxanna Wheatpit." Henry. That's all right. Just some nouveau riche, I suppose. Paul. Wait a minute. There's a P. S. Listen. (Reads): "1 am particularly eager to tneet you and your friend, Mr. Paul Green, as I was a devoted friend of his poor wife, and was with her at the end." (Henry and Paul look blankly at each other for a moment, and then — ) (May's voice is heard in the hall.) May. (Off stage.) Never mind climbing all these stairs, Mrs. Podge. I know the way. _, *^ Paul. It's May ! What do you suppose she's coming back Henry. (Fervently.) I'd give a million dollars to be out of this! Paul. Nonsense. Don't get hot-headed. Henry. I'm not hot-headed. I'm cold-footed. Paul. Just leave everything to me. 108 FIFTY-FIFTY May appears at the doorway. May. May I come in? ^ Paul. Well, Miss Dexter. This is a surprise! Please do come in. {Arranges a chair for her.) May. I can't stop. My call must be brief. It is very serious. Paul. Serious ? May. Quite serious. Are you prepared for a shock? Paul. {Desperately.) We're prepared for anything! May. I've just had startling news. (Takes telegram from pocket.) A telegram from Milwaukee. Paul. Milwaukee ! Henry. (Despondently.) I knew it! May. (Reads.) "At last located Mrs. Paul Green, this city, alive and well. No such death here. Husband evidently mis- informed. Mrs. Green declares husband missing last two years. Is leaving for New York, will arrive to- morrow." (Paul staggers.) Quick, Mr. Brown, catch him ! He's going to faint ! Henry. (Indifferently .) He won't faint. There's no whisky in the house. FIFTY-FIFTY 109 May. That's all. We just got word at the office. Goodbye. {She has been eyeing both pals narrowly all during this scene. With a courteous nod, she goes out.) Henry. (^After a dazed moment.) It can't be true. There's no such person. Paul. I know it. But she's on her way here. What'll we do. Think! Quick! ^^ Henry. I can't. My thinker won't work. (Paul, with a sudden idea, dashes into the sleeping room.) Henry. (Calls after him.) Paul! _ Paul. (Off stage.) What? (Dashes back on with two suitcases, runs to bureau, drops suitcases and opens bureau drawers.) Henry. (In terror-stricken tones, during above business.) She — she'll be here tomorrow ! Paul. (Starting to pack.) Well — maybe she will. But we won't! (They both remove clothing from bureau in utmost haste, and chuck it into the suitcases, as — ) The Curtain Falls Quickly. FIFTY-FIFTY The Third Act. Scene: A month later. The living room of a bungalow in the Adirondack Mountains. The room is hand- some and beautifully furnished, with everything in perfect harmony. An archway in the center shows a vestibule in the rear that leads off to the right. There is a door up left, leading to the pals' work room, and another door, right, leading to the dining room and the back of the house. Near left door is a large Japanese folding screen. In the center of the room is a library table, with inkstand, rvriting ma- terials, paper weight; also a telephone. An easel holding a canvas is down left of center. In the right wall, near the front, is a fireplace with an easy chair before it. A fire glows in the grate, for although it is summer, the mountain air is chilly. It is mid- afternoon and the stage is well lighted throughout the act. As the curtain rises, an electric bell is ringing off left. It rings violently several times, then — Smudge enters from the right. He carries a tray on which are two tall, empty glasses, a square bottle of cold tea and a syphon of seltzer. Smudge. (As he crosses toward the left door.) Yes, sah; comin'. (Aside.) Doggone it, I ain't no twins. If I don't tote dis fast enough for yo' yo' bettah git yo' another boy. (Exits left, and almost im- mediately re-enters without tray. Drops exhausted 110 F IFTY 'F IFTY m into chair.) Whew. I' gettin' doggone tired bein' a bartender fo' them fellers. I hired out fo' a valley three weeks ago, but I ain't done a lick of valleyin'. All I done is tote grub an' liquor from pantry to con- sumers. {Electric door hell rings, off center. He listens, locates sound and shakes head.) Dat's de doorbell. Dere am too doggone many bells in dis house fo' one valley. (Rises slowly as doorbell rings again.) Well, I suppose I has to see who it am. (Exits center. Slight pause.) Cap' enters through arch, from hall, followed by Smudge. ^ , Cap'. Reckon you*re the cook of this bloomin* craft, eh? Smudge. No, sah; I'm de valley. Dat is, I is an' I ain't — mostly ain't. Has yo' all got a card? Cap\ Card.^ What kind of a card? (Comes down center glancing about him curiously.) Smudge. A card wid yo' name wrote on it, which I takes to de boss and den he tells me if he am at home or ain't. Cap'. Oh, I see. Well, you black landlubber, I don't care whether the skipper is aboard or ain't. What I want to know is if you're carryin' anything aboard in the line of women folks. _ bMUDGE. No, sah. We is all gentlemen heah. Cap'. Sure? -, Smudge. Cross mah heart. 112 FIFTY-FIFTY Cap'. Well, I'll take your word for it. (Goes toward arch.) I'll cast off now and cruise around outside a bit. If yer lyin' to me I'll sure find it out, and then look out for a rough sea. I kick up some dirty weather when I git started. So long, Sambo. (Swaggers out through hall.) c. ^ Smudge. Lordy, but he's a unpolite man. (The front door is heard to slam. His eyes roll in terror.) I'll bet dat man is a pirate. (Phone bell on table rings. He starts, and is relieved to discover it is only the phone bell. Disgustedly.) Mah goodness, dem bells will sure drive me — oh shut up! I'm comin'. (Comes to table, receiver to ear.) Hello! * * * Yes, dis am de residence of Mr. Henry Brown, but it ain't him con- versin' with yo'. (Listens a moment.) Yes'm. Well, if yo' could tell it wasn't Mr. Brown talkin' maybe yo' know everythin' yo' wants to widout botherin' me. * * * Hey.? Who? Miss Bland? (Graciously.) I beg yo' pardon. Miss Bland. I thought it was de iceman talkin'. Don't you want to speak to him? * * * Oh, jes' take a message? All right, ma'am. Wait till I get a pen. (Picks up pen; writes as if \ing a message.) Go ahead. (Repeats message.) •■*•*■ .'■i^vr*- "Kb .V -b v : 4.°-^*. '. 40^ 0_, "o • » * -•% Jpv .•1°* *.