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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
THE QUANDARY : A PLAY 
 IN THREE ACTS : BY 
 J.ROSETT ue ^ ^ 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE MIDDLE CLASS" 
 
 PHOENIX PRESS 
 BALTIMORE 
 

 COPYRIGHT, 1913, 
 BY J. ROSETT 
 
 ©Gf.D 34056 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 A Dissertation on the Evolution of 
 Humps, Etc. 
 
 Whether we shall kill off our weak, as some of 
 our forefathers did, and as present-day society is 
 bent upon doing; or whether we shall permit them 
 to survive, by adapting them to such spheres of 
 usefulness as the high heterogeneity of functions 
 of our highly evolved social organism affords; is 
 a question on which we may differ. But we must all 
 agree that if the former expedient is to be adopted, 
 it should be carried out in accordance with a plan 
 that would satisfy certain requirements of civiliza- 
 tion : it should involve the minimum of expense ; it 
 should be accompanied with the least amount of 
 suffering to the subjects; it should not endanger 
 the well being of the survivors; and it should be 
 more or less esthetic. 
 
 The electric chair is not a bad device for the 
 purpose ; for besides fulfilling the above-mentioned 
 requirements, it has the additional advantage of 
 being in itself, so to say, a demonstration of what 
 
IV 
 
 the organized genius of man is capable of accom- 
 plishing — a living triumph of civilization. The 
 hangman's noose is not as safe for the survivors as 
 it appears; experience having taught us that the 
 high scaffolding is not always secure, and that the 
 trap frequently falls prematurely, much to the 
 damage of the sheriff's assistants' arms and legs. 
 Its esthetics, too, are in many points defective. 
 Furthermore, it arouses in us none of the feelings 
 of moral pride and satisfaction that the electric 
 chair does. The guillotine is an ugly thing, in- 
 volving the shedding of blood — as ancient a thing 
 as the butcher's knife; it kills the human being in 
 about the same manner that they slaughter cattle 
 — an association unbearable to the civilized mind. 
 Certain poisons, particularly the cyanide of potash, 
 are, in the opinion of some, even superior to the 
 electric chair, being cheap, speedy and highly es- 
 thetic. The cyanide of potash causes death not 
 by the corrosion of any tissues, but by the propa- 
 gation of an impulse — a wave of isomeric trans- 
 formation — along the afferent nerves, which, as 
 it passes through the central ganglia into the ef- 
 ferent nerves of the muscles of respiration, causes 
 in them an inhibition of the normal impulses, thus 
 bringing on death by asphyxiation — an exalting, a 
 solemn, an almost awe-inspiring thought of the 
 
V 
 
 wonderful molecular arrangements and forces that 
 mere dirt is capable of evolving. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, we employ none of the 
 excellent means of killing at our disposal. Instead 
 we choose to employ methods that involve the 
 maximum of cost, the maximum of suffering to the 
 subjects, the maximum of danger to the survivors, 
 and which are, in point of ugliness, unsurpassed by 
 the most highly evolved products of ugliness in the 
 entire history of savagery, barbarism and civiliza- 
 tion. We torture our weak; we hound and starve 
 and poison them slowly. In truth, the slower the 
 process, the greater our satisfaction. We make 
 indeed slowness the chief point; and the efforts of 
 the legion of our well-intentioned philanthropists, 
 professional moralists and prescribers (read pre- 
 scribes, not proscribers) of virtue, are all directed 
 towards this one point — to make the execution 
 of the weak among us as slow a process as possible. 
 To protract the agonies of a weak boy for only so 
 much as one year is considered by us a deed com- 
 pensable by the profoundest sense of moral satis- 
 faction. A single Christmas dinner, dished out 
 once a year to a half-starved cannery employee on 
 half time — a potion that may protract her suffer- 
 ings for but a few hours — is regarded as an action 
 engendering much piety and virtue. 
 
VI 
 
 In order to show that these lines are not written 
 in a spirit of bias or bitterness, let a word be said in 
 favor of this method. It has the virtue of saving 
 us the trouble of a diagnosis — the perplexing and 
 difficult task of separating the weak from the 
 strong that a speedy method of execution would 
 necessitate. We merely subject all the children 
 of our species to a test of strength, to be presently 
 explained, somewhat after the manner of the cold 
 bath administered by the Spartans to their newly 
 born infants. The strong are expected to escape 
 the test, and the weak to succumb to it. Being 
 on a higher plane of civilization, however, and in 
 possession of the advantages of nineteen centuries 
 of Christianity, our test is superior to that of the 
 Spartans in that it is somewhat more extended, 
 more complex, and rather more — costly. 
 
 What is this test? 
 
 While still quite young, we begin by bringing 
 before the child a false, a distorted, an impossible 
 picture of its environments. That in order (there 
 seems to be no other reason that we can think of) 
 to disable it from responding correctly to the en- 
 vironing influences; probably with the view that 
 since the life of those who w T ill succumb to the 
 test is to be only a protracted death, it is as well 
 that society be protected from any harm that the 
 
VII 
 
 doomed individuals may exert, by cheating them 
 out of the facts with which they are about to cope 
 in their efforts to maintain themselves alive. And so 
 Santa Claus fills the Christmas stocking. The moon 
 is made of cheese. Friday is an unlucky day, and 
 13 an unlucky number. Satan always finds some- 
 thing for idle hands to do; everything is for the 
 best; the universe was especially devised for the 
 benefit of mankind; the dead baby-brother feeds 
 on milk and honey, plays the harp, and wears a 
 golden crown and a pair of silver wings. Man 
 multiplies neither by gamogenesis nor by agamo- 
 genesis; the doctor or the midwife merely ushers 
 in the stork, who brings the baby from where the 
 waterlilies grow. Neither man nor animals nor 
 plants have any sexual organs, and it is a shame to 
 speak about them. The atmosphere is full of the 
 spirits of dead people, of witches, devils and angels. 
 And yet, for all that, seven times nine are sixty 
 three, or you go without lunch. 
 
 The result of such an education is a form of in- 
 sanity, which may be aptly termed educational in- 
 sanity. The strong are expected to escape it; only 
 the weak are supposed to contract it. Yet, how 
 few of us have been so fortunate as to entirely es- 
 cape from its effects. Fewer still are willing to 
 admit that traces of that insanity cling to them 
 
VIII 
 
 throughout life, in spite of their best efforts to 
 counteract them. 
 
 What follows? 
 
 The living organism is a moving equilibrium. A 
 disturbance of that equilibrium in one direction 
 will result in a compensating disturbance in another 
 direction. A curvature of the spine at one point, 
 will result in a curvature in the opposite direction 
 at another point. A hump on the back brings 
 about also a hump on the front. In short, one 
 deformity, in the effort of the living organism to 
 maintain its equilibrium, breeds another. And so, 
 to equilibrate the effects on the child's mind from 
 telling it one lie, it becomes necessary to tell it an- 
 other ; or else the child itself compensates it by the 
 construction of false theories and hypotheses. So 
 that by the time the child is sufficiently grown, and 
 in our estimation capable of shifting for itself, it 
 is full of humps on every side. 
 
 Before proceeding, however, let it be noted that 
 the child thus deformed by society, is itself a part 
 of society's organism; that society, too, is a mov- 
 ing equilibrium; and that a hump at one part of 
 society's body, also inevitably results in a hump 
 at another part of its body. In deforming the 
 child, society has, therefore, really acquired a de- 
 formity; and that deformity will henceforth serve 
 
IX 
 
 as the starting point of numerous other deformi- 
 ties. Let us see how the process works: 
 
 Having subjected its young to the educational 
 insanity-test, and thus separated the weak from 
 the strong, society now proceeds with the execu- 
 tion of the former. It would appear that the task 
 is now simple enough; since a weak and crippled 
 being — so thoroughly unfitted to its environments 
 that it will not only not see obstacles in its way 
 where such obstacles exist, but actually see them 
 where they do not exist — left to shift for itself, 
 must inevitably perish in a short time. Simple 
 enough indeed were it if that being — let us say a 
 girl — could be left by society to shift for herself. 
 The trouble is that she cannot. She is by this time 
 thoroughly rooted in society's body. It is too late 
 for a radical operation ; and the only way in which 
 society can maintain itself in a more or less erect 
 position with that hump on its back, is to acquire a 
 hump on its front. This society now proceeds to 
 do. 
 
 It is true, the girl is employed in a canning es- 
 tablishment at a starvation wage, and thus partly 
 maintains herself, that is, pays part of the cost 
 of her long-drawn-out execution. That were well 
 enough had it not been for the fact that she is 
 overwhelmingly possessed of an inherited tendency 
 
X 
 
 to maintain her own particular equilibrium, a tend- 
 ency to live ; that is, to preserve her own individual- 
 ity and to perpetuate her race — the one manifesting 
 itself in a desire for food, the other in that for love. 
 Since, however, her wages are not meant for and 
 consequently do not suffice for these purposes, the 
 girl, robbed of the faculty of correlating distant 
 causes and sequences, is impelled by the momentum 
 of her inherited tendency along the line of least 
 resistance, and she draws upon her fountain of 
 love for her shortage of food. Thus society has 
 triumphed. It has managed to maintain itself erect 
 with a hump on its back by the acquisition of a 
 hump on its front. 
 
 An additional hump, however, involves addi- 
 tional weight and discomfort. To allay that so- 
 ciety proceeds to curve its lumbar spine. The 
 forces of religion are bestirred to remove the so- 
 called temptations from the girl's way. She is 
 enjoined against the novel on the only day when 
 she is at leisure — on Sunday; an effort is made to 
 close up on the same day the places of amusement 
 —the theatre, the dancing hall, the moving pic- 
 ture palace, the concert hall. Immediately that is 
 accomplished, the girl, having every outlet to her 
 energies closed, proceeds along the most direct 
 route and further indulges in prostitution. The 
 
XI 
 
 lumbar curvature obviously calls for a cervical cur- 
 vature. 
 
 The professional and amateur dispensers of (of, 
 not with) virtue are now let loose. The support of 
 these legions is, of course, put upon the girl's back; 
 her wages are still lower, with the result that she 
 is impelled to resort still further to prostitution. 
 Then come the various inducements to be good. 
 Hell having lost its terrors to the girl, the philan- 
 thropies step in to take its place — the charities with 
 their donations, the Christmas dinners, the settle- 
 ment-houses, and what not. The cost of these in- 
 stitutions is again subtracted from the girl's wages ; 
 she finds herself in the position of a public charac- 
 ter; her last vestige of self-respect is destroyed; 
 she becomes an out-and-out prostitute; and society 
 parades a swelled head. The expedient of braces 
 is now adopted; the police forces are multiplied; 
 attempts are made at the suppression of houses of 
 ill fame, with the result that the easily located and 
 recognizable prostitute is driven at large to spread 
 venereal disease broadcast. The weight of the 
 braces — increased state-expenditures on the one 
 hand and graft-scandals on the other — has still 
 further deformed the already deformed body of 
 society. Braces are now applied to brace the 
 braces, without end. And so by the time the girl 
 
XII 
 
 is safely lodged in her grave, the humped and 
 bumped body of society lies prostrated in agony 
 on its death-bed. 
 
 And all that when a few cents' worth of the 
 cyanide of potassium could have accomplished the 
 trick with so much safety and ease. 
 
 Now a word about the play itself. 
 
 Upon the publication of "The Middle Class," 
 I was politely accused by the critics of having 
 plagiarized some of the ideas contained in that 
 play from a number of sources. So much so that 
 I was compelled to read a number of books in or- 
 der to ascertain, for my own satisfaction, the truth 
 of the accusation. Lest I be put to the same 
 trouble once more, I therefore hereby make public 
 declaration to the effect that I disclaim all origi- 
 nality to any of the ideas contained in "The 
 Quandary." Le\ them be credited to whatever 
 source the critics may discover them to belong. One 
 straight piece of plagiarism which I have com- 
 mitted deliberately, I shall herewith point out. The 
 idea of the pictures representing the several steps 
 in the progress of woman's fall, I have appropri- 
 ated from a book by Mr. Ernest A. Bell, Secretary 
 of the Illinois Vigilance Association, Superintend- 
 ent of Midnight Missions, etc., with special ar- 
 
XIII 
 
 tides by men and women prominent in the politi- 
 cal, religious and social circles of this country, 
 entitled "Fighting the Traffic in Young Girls, or 
 the War on the White Slave Trade — The Great- 
 est Crime in the World's History." My "Step 
 One" is taken bodily from a full-page picture in 
 that book, there called "The First Step." The 
 other "Steps" were suggested by that and other 
 pictures and descriptions in the same book. 
 
 Thus much for my own benefit. One word of 
 warning for the benefit of the readers and theatri- 
 cal managers. 
 
 Three friends, on whom I can rely for a candid 
 opinion, have kindly read the play in manuscript. 
 One said that the play was immoral. Another, 
 that the scene between Dr. Merril and Sam in the 
 first scene of the second act, was morbid. The 
 third, a lady, merely called me a reactionary. All 
 the three agreed on two points — that I have writ- 
 ten nothing but the plain truth, and that therefore 
 no the*atrical manager in America would stage 
 the play. 
 
 J. Rosett. 
 
 Baltimore, 1913. 
 
CHARACTERS: 
 
 REV. FIEDLER, President of the Association 
 for the Suppression of Vice. 
 
 MR. HUNTER, owner of a canning establish- 
 ment. 
 
 MRS. HUNTER, his wife. 
 
 DR. MERRIL, physician for the Association. 
 
 MR. BLAKE, a hotel proprietor. 
 
 MRS. HUNCH, a widow in a state of genteel 
 poverty. 
 
 CLARA, her daughter. 
 
 SAM HIGGINS, an employee in Mr. Hunter's 
 cannery. 
 
 MR. HIGGINS, SR., his father. 
 
 MR. COLEMAN, A. B., Ph. D., Executive 
 Secretary of the Association, expert statistician. 
 
THE QUANDARY 
 
 ACT. I. 
 
 The office of the Society for the Suppression of 
 Vice, Christmas Day, 1 1 A. M. 
 
 A large, well-furnished room. At the right, in 
 front, at a little distance from an open fireplace, is 
 the secretary's desk, with writing materials, type- 
 writer, telephones, books, etc., on it. On the rear 
 wall, between the windows, is a series of nine litho- 
 graphs, representing in as many chapters the story 
 of a woman's fall. A large inscription above the 
 series announces: "The Nine Steps of Woman's 
 Fall " and sub-captions indicate the particular 
 number of each "step" from one to nine. The 
 room has one door, at the right. 
 
 The rising of the curtain finds the Reverend Mr. 
 Sachariah Fiedler behind the secretary's desk. Mr r 
 Hunter, who has evidently just entered, is tucking 
 away the gloves in his coat-pockets, and then pro- 
 
2 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 
 
 ceeds to pull of the coat. Mr. Sam Higgins has 
 just placed a couple of large hand-baskets, neatly 
 covered with white napkins, on the floor, in front 
 of the door; he leaves the room, and presently re- 
 turns with more baskets, repeating the excursion 
 several times. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Fiedler, the president of the As- 
 sociation, is a lean, tall, smooth-shaven gentleman 
 of perhaps fifty. His bearing and his manners do 
 much toward magnifying the qualities of his 
 Prince Albert and black waistcoat; while his Prince 
 Albert and black waistcoat, in their turn, fully com- 
 pensate the favor by exerting an even greater mag- 
 nifying action on the qualities of the bearing and 
 manners of their wearer. The net result of the ac- 
 tions and reactions of these mutually aggravating 
 agencies is a picture of as staggering a respecta- 
 bility as was ever honored or justified by the cloth. 
 
 Mr. Hunter is about forty ; a well-dressed, well- 
 nourished, handsome man. He is somewhat diffi- 
 dent in his bearing, and makes the impression of 
 being a stranger and a guest even in his most inti- 
 mate spheres. 
 
 Mr. Sam Higgins should be noted with care. 
 He is 22 years of age, of medium stature, and is 
 dressed in his newest holiday attire — a very stiff- 
 
ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 3 
 
 looking, ill-fitting, cheap appearing affair at its 
 best. He is awkzvard in his movements; is con- 
 scious of the defect; and is making a continual ef- 
 fort to overcome it. The young man appears 
 decidedly undernourished. His body is lean and 
 soft; his face thin and anemic. He has delicate and 
 handsome features. But there is no fire in his eye, 
 and but little energy to his chin and nostrils. He 
 has a fine forehead; not expressive, it is true, of 
 that superior intelligence which comprehends wide 
 relations, which calculates and constructs, but of 
 that, at least, which discriminates and appreciates. 
 Found by candle-light in a garret with writing ma- 
 terials, he might be taken for a poet; in a beautiful 
 library looking out into a garden, with a good 
 kitchen and a couple of servants down stairs, it is 
 not improbable that he might be a poet. In fact, 
 however, born and raised as he has been in a back 
 alley, with the foremanship in a canning establish- 
 ment as his highest goal in life; and a directorate 
 in The Society for the Suppression of Vice } or the 
 superintendentship in a Sunday School as his dim 
 and distant ideal — he is what he is : an unsophisti- 
 cated and level bit of humanity ; capable perhaps, 
 when fully aroused, to a short, spasmodic effort; 
 but, in the long run, too weak to withstand the 
 stress and strain and struggle of a strenuous and 
 
4 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 
 
 struggling world; without the advantages either of 
 the cunning of the beast or the superior intelligence 
 of man. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 That's right. Take off your coat. It is rather 
 warm here. There is no hurry. We have a whole 
 day to make the calls. 
 
 Hunter. 
 Am I assigned any special calls ? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 No; Mrs. Hunch and Mr. Blake are going down 
 Amity Lane. You might take a stroll with me 
 along the lower sections, if you have a mind to. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Of course. I should be glad to. And in the 
 evening at my house. [As Sam Higgins disappears 
 through the door.] A good boy that Sam. A 
 first class young fellow. 
 
 Enter Dr. Merril, a clean, wiry-looking young- 
 ster of forty-some. As he enters with a rushy he 
 
ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 5 
 
 overlooks the baskets in front of the door, stumbles 
 over them, makes a spring to nearly the centre of 
 the room } and thus regains his balance. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Hello! What in the — What's that? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Christmas dinners for some of our deserving 
 cases. A great advance this, Doctor, over the old 
 Christmas dinner, where those people would be 
 gathered around large tables, like cattle around a 
 trough. We make them feel that they are human 
 beings. We let them eat their Christmas dinner in 
 their own time, at their own homes. Let them 
 enjoy it in their own way, and in the fullness of 
 their hearts offer thanks. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 No wonder I stumbled over it. I never could 
 get over the "deserving cases." But when you 
 string on to them the fullness of heart, the offering 
 of thanks and all the rest of it — that simply stag- 
 gers me ; my fall is inevitable. 
 
6 the quandary. act i. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Not at all, Dr. Merril; not at all. You take 
 for instance that young woman down Amity Lane. 
 She was rescued from the lowest depths of the 
 abyss. Think of what she was and what she is 
 now I Has she not good reason to be thankful ? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 What is she doing? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 For the present she is taking out work home — 
 finishing clothes — sewing in buttons and so forth, 
 you know. In a year or two we may be able to 
 procure for her the position of a cook or chamber- 
 maid, or one of general housework, in some decent 
 home. The woman earned last week four dollars, 
 which paid for her board and lodging. Honest 
 four dollars they were ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Very. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 The woman is leading an honest and honorable 
 
ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 7 
 
 existence — isn't that good reason for her to be 
 thankful ? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 There, there ! That's going a bit too far ! When 
 you say honest, Mr. Fiedler, I agree with you — I 
 more than agree with you ! A plant may be said 
 to be leading an honest — merely honest — exist- 
 ence. But a horse is something more than merely 
 honest. It is actively honest, dynamically honest; 
 it is honest plus a number with a row of zeros the 
 length of this room. In order for the horse to re- 
 main merely honest, it would have to break the 
 harness, smash the wagon, kill the driver and 
 commit a large number of other generally-recog- 
 nized and well-established dishonest acts. I say, 
 on the question of honesty I more than agree with 
 you. The woman is leading the honest existence 
 not merely of a plant, but of that of a horse. But 
 when you assert that her existence is honorable to 
 boot, you have me on the mat. For by no amount of 
 mental effort am I enabled to associate the honor- 
 able with the horse — I, who at a pinch can tack on 
 the honorable to a Member of Congress, and in a 
 great emergency even to a city councilman ! 
 
 Enter Sam Higgins with more baskets. 
 
8 the quandary. act i. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Sam, take the baskets a little further away from 
 the door. Dr. Merril stumbled over them and 
 nearly fell. 
 
 Sam proceeds to move the baskets. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Higgins — hello ! You look spick and span in 
 your new Sunday clothes. How is father? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Thank you, sir. He is a great deal better. He 
 was out this morning. Says he is feeling fine. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Come here, Sam. [Sam approaches him with 
 much deference.] I am going to make you a little 
 Christmas present, Sam. A raise of two dollars a 
 week. You will now be getting twelve dollars a 
 week. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Stop, Hunter. Mr. Fiedler, stop him before 
 he robs this youth of his stock of honesty! Be a 
 man, Sam ! Don't permit your employer to de- 
 
ACT I. THE QUANDARY. * 
 
 prive you of your one valuable heritage — honesty. 
 Strike ! Strike against this foul attempt upon your 
 virtue ! This raise in wages opens before you the 
 road to a thousand temptations: the moving pic- 
 ture palace and the theatre gape open before you ; 
 the dancing hall allures you ; a surfeit of food en- 
 riches your blood and causes a plethora of spirit; 
 you will read novels and gaze at statues ; the gates 
 of the inferno are gaping open for your reception ! 
 And all that in the office of the Society for the 
 Suppression of Vice!— Mr. Fiedler, how can you 
 permit it? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Never mind him, Sam. Twelve dollars a week 
 isn't any too much for you, eh, Sam? 
 
 Sam. 
 No, sir. Thank you, sir; thank you. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Twelve dollars a week for a canning-house em- 
 
10 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 
 
 ployee — it is unheard of! You are ruining our 
 industries, Hunter! You are destroying the em- 
 ployers' incentive to employ. The country will be 
 without canning houses. You are taking the "com- 
 pensation for abstinence" and forging it into a key 
 to unlock the gates of hell. Presently you'll not 
 have a penny for the suppression of vice, and that 
 at a time when the country will be rampant with 
 a thousand temptations of your own make. Mr. 
 Fiedler, the cause of virtue is at stake ! You can- 
 not, you must not permit it to go on ! 
 
 Sam. 
 
 I thank you again, Mr. Hunter. I can only 
 promise you to do my best, as I have always done. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 I know you have done your best, Sam. And 
 what is more, you haven't been a loafer and a 
 spendthrift. At a time when other boys have been 
 spending their earnings on drink, and worse things 
 than drink, you have been helping your father in- 
 stead. And you have contributed your mite to- 
 ward the cause of the suppression of vice — some- 
 thing that very few young men will do. 
 
act i. the quandary. 1 1 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Approaches Sam, raises his chin with his hands 
 and looks intently into his face.] Are you ill, Sam? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 I'm all right. Only here, sometimes. [Puts his 
 hand on the top of his head.] A feeling of weight 
 — as if something were pressing on it — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Very well, Sam. I shall look you over the next 
 time I see you. You may stop in at my office if 
 you like. Or — let me see. I shall be over to see 
 your father this afternoon, and I may take a look 
 at you. Tell your father that I am coming over, 
 will you ? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Thank you. I'll tell him. You will pardon 
 me, there are a few more baskets. [Exit.] 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [He pulls out from his breast-pocket a folded 
 paper and hands it to Fiedler.] My annual re- 
 port of the number of cases treated, the number of 
 calls, and so on. 
 
12 the quandary. act i. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Thank you. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Well? What about tonight? Are we really 
 going to have a good time? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Yes, indeed — at my house. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 An excellent idea. Young and old will enjoy 
 themselves, and the good cause will profit by their 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Our Christmas entertainment of last year netted 
 us over $1,000. We should be able to double that 
 amount tonight. [After a pause.] But don't you 
 know, I suspect Mr. Blake is a bit sore that the 
 entertainment wasn't arranged in one of his hotels. 
 He will get over it, no doubt, when he thinks better 
 of the affair. For my own part I am convinced 
 that the matter stands best as it does. What do 
 you think ? 
 
act i. the quandary. 13 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 I am sure of it. In a hotel — that would hardly 
 do. No ! It wouldn't do at all I The affair bears 
 quite a different aspect when arranged in a private 
 house — a dwelling — a home ! A home, mind you I 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Ever so much more respectable in appearance. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 That is the point, gentlemen ! That is the point I 
 The same affair arranged in a private house looks 
 so much better; it appears so much more respect- 
 able ; it seems to bear the aspect of the home. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Approaches the desk, opens a large volume and 
 turns over the pages.] I admire the beauty and 
 the richness of our tongue. Even such an ill-sound- 
 ing verb as "to seem" has three distinct and sepa- 
 rate respectable synonyms — to seem, to look, to 
 appear. And you have exhausted them all, Mr. 
 Fiedler. You are to be envied for your ready 
 knowledge of our language. [Closes the volume 
 with a hang.] The Up-to-Date Encyclopedia of 
 
14 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 
 
 the English Language. The most complete dic- 
 tionary extant. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [Flattered.] It is our specialty, Doctor. It is 
 by virtue of the word that we are enabled to ma- 
 nipulate the spirit of man. What morphine and 
 chloroform are to you, the word is to us. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Very true; very true. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 But to return to the subject — the entertainment 
 of this evening. The only objection to having it 
 in a private house is the amount of trouble to which 
 it puts the housewife. Mrs. Hunter — 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Not the least, not the least! I assure you, the 
 girl is as happy as a lark over the affair. [Rises 
 and gets hold of Dr. Merril* s arm.] But what use 
 is there in explaining it to him, Merril? An old 
 bachelor like he could never understand it. 
 
act i. the quandary. 15 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 You are not giving us sufficient credit for our 
 knowledge of human nature, Mr. Hunter. Don't 
 forget that human nature is our business, our spe- 
 cialty. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 No, Mr. Fiedler, that is something you cannot 
 know. You must experience it in order to know it. 
 Merril, tell him how you felt six months after your 
 marriage. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Don't harp upon my sore, Hunter, it's cruel. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Ah, my boy, but my wife has asked your wife 
 how she felt six months after her marriage. Do 
 you know what she said? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 What? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 She said she wasn't sure she has been married 
 quite yet six months. 
 
16 the quandary. act i. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 What? Oh, the women! Such an imputation 
 against a man who has been doing his level best 
 towards his wife for ten years ! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 All the same — this is just how / feel. The six 
 months seem like six days. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 You are indeed a fortunate man, Mr. Hunter. 
 A happy marriage widens and elevates man's life. 
 It opens his heart to all mankind. It kindles in 
 him the spirit of salvation, arouses his utmost sym- 
 pathies for the sufferings of his fellows, as well as 
 his profoundest disgust for their follies and their 
 crimes ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Here, now ! That I cannot stand — I must speak. 
 Mr. Fiedler, when you discourse learnedly about 
 hell and Heaven I always maintain a respectful 
 silence. It is your particular field of action ; there 
 you are at home, and I a complete stranger. There- 
 fore I am but in duty bound to listen with respect. 
 
ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 17 
 
 But the moment you speak of a happy marriage — 
 there / am at home, and I beg the chair for a point 
 of order. Here stands a man whose word the 
 court sees no reason to doubt. Upon his own testi- 
 mony he has lived the last six months in a state of 
 anaesthesia so profound, that the six months seemed 
 to him like six days. As for myself, I can only 
 corroborate his testimony by informing the jury 
 that I doubt whether the ten years of my own happy 
 married life have at all begun. Such being the 
 case, tell me in the name of common sense, in what 
 manner does a happy marriage widen and elevate 
 a man's life? With all my respect for the gentle- 
 man on the floor, I protest against such a mon- 
 strous perversion of facts ! I maintain that when 
 a man is in such a state of unconsciousness that six 
 months seem to him like six days, his life, far from 
 being widened and elevated, is in fact narrowed and 
 debased ; and that his heart under those conditions 
 is not open, but tightly shut against all the rest of 
 mankind ! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 True love is the pinacle of happiness. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 It is the happiness of sleep, of unconsciousness, 
 
18 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 
 
 the negative happiness of oblivion ; and the worst of 
 it is that its contagion is so powerful, that its mere 
 contemplation has turned a perfectly respectable 
 Christian clergyman into heathen adorer of Nir- 
 vana ! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Are you not truly happy, Mr. Hunter? 
 [Hunter does not reply } but paces the room in 
 silence.] 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 There — you see? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Hurridly.] Yes — of course. But — Shall I con- 
 fess it? It is a happiness not perhaps untinctured 
 by a certain sense of pain, of — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 There you are! Do you know what it is? It 
 is the objective reaction against the subjective anni- 
 hilation; the rebellion of the protoplasm against 
 the destruction of the ego. 
 
act i. the quandary. 19 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [After a pause.] Nonsense! It isn't that. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 What then ? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [JVith much hesitation; like an amateur in the 
 art of lying.] — Mr. Feidler, you know what this 
 work — the suppression of vice — has meant to me — 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 I assure you, Mr. Hunter, we are not unmindful 
 of the sacrifices you have been making. As presi- 
 dent of the Association I can testify that — 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 No ; it isn't that. The few dollars I donated now 
 and then — 
 
 Fiedler. 
 Few dollars ! Other men would call it a fortune ! 
 
20 the quandary. act i. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 However it be — I haven't really deprived my- 
 self of anything. What would I not give to rid 
 humanity of that monstrous plague — the social 
 evil — 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 And to cure mankind of the diseases of the soul 
 and body which the social evil has inflicted upon it. 
 I said the soul and body, Dr. Merril. Mind you, 
 I include the body. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Don't ! Better leave the body alone, Mr. Fiedler, 
 or there'll be a jurisdictional fight in the union. 
 Give the devil his due — leave the body to the doc- 
 tors. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [After contemplating Hunter, who continues to 
 pace the room restlessly.] What is Mrs. Hunter's 
 attitude towards our work? 
 
 Hunter. 
 [Confused.'] — That is the point. How would 
 
ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 21 
 
 you account for it? She does not seem to appre- 
 ciate its importance. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 I account for it very simply. The woman is 
 still under the influence of anaesthesia. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Not at all, sir, not at all ! Mr. Hunter, you must 
 make allowances for human nature. She is a young 
 woman, in the enjoyment of her honeymoon, so to 
 say. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Approaches Fiedler and shakes his hand.] 
 Shake, old boy. I am glad you agree with me at 
 last. Just what I said — a plain case of anaesthesia. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Yes, Dr. Merril, but the trouble with you is that 
 your expressions do not appear to — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 — Do not seem to, do not look as if — Phew! 
 What a flow of language! * 
 
22 the quandary. act i. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [Abandons Dr. Merril with a sweep of his arm 
 as a hopeless case.] You must have patience, Mr. 
 Hunter. A little patience. Wait. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Mr. Fiedler, I wish yon would take her in hand a 
 little. You know how to go about that sort of 
 thing much better than I do. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 Gladly. I shall employ my utmo st influence. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Thank you ; and I can promise you that once con- 
 verted, she will prove a most valuable asset to our 
 cause. Her sympathies are unbounded; she has a 
 wonderful intelligence; she is — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Oh, come! You are wasting words on Mr. 
 Fiedler. You know very well that in the matter of 
 adjectives and attributives he can beat you to a 
 pulp. As for myself, be charitable and allow a 
 little credit to my imagination: tell me that she is 
 
ACT I. THE QUANDARY. - 23 
 
 the most perfect woman of the three tenses, and I 
 will promise you to imagine the rest. — Hello! 
 There's Mr. Blake ! 
 
 Enter Mr. Blake , a gentleman of fifty-odd. Past 
 the climax of a strong bulldog career, he is just 
 beginning to slide down the hill of life with a grunt 
 and a snarl. Witness his square jaw, which trem- 
 bles when his passions are aroused; the lower eye- 
 lids, which are sagging down — "baggy," as the 
 ladies call it; his left leg, which is rather weak, 
 and his right, zvhich is rather stiff; and the color 
 of his lips — a livid purple with patches of white. 
 He puffs as he enters; such puffing, coming from a 
 gentleman of his stamp, being generally believed 
 to betoken great prosperity — the mark of the fin- 
 ished gentleman ; in which last superstition there 
 is perhaps much truth. 
 
 The usual "good-morning" is exchanged. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Aside to Dr. Merril.] Merril, [ wish you 
 would help me to get her interested in this work. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Why? 
 
24 the quandary. act i. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Oh, you don't understand. — I must — she must 
 be interested — in something — 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch not here yet? I hope I shan't 
 spend the morning here waiting for the ladies. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 I expect her here every minute. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 Well, Mr. Hunter — how about your wife? 
 Aren't you going to initiate her in the good work? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 I hope tonight's entertainment will be her first 
 step. I expect her here every minute. You might 
 try and see what you could do in the way of getting 
 her interested. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 I suppose she is not acquainted with the evils 
 prevailing in a large city. I understand she comes 
 from a small town? 
 
act i. the quandary. 25 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Well — yes and no. You know, she had been 
 married in Chicago. After the death of her hus- 
 band, some seven years ago, she retired to that 
 small Western town — a mere village. It was 
 there that I first met her, on my tour to study the 
 methods of vice-suppression in the Central and 
 Western States. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 It takes patience to stick it out for six or seven 
 years in an out of the way place like that. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Well, you know how it is. Her health was 
 rather poor, and her funds low. She obtained 
 there a position of a sort of assistant to the school- 
 mistress, and when the old woman died she took 
 her place. She became so attached to the little 
 place, and the school, and the children, that I had 
 quite some difficulty in persuading her to leave. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 Ah, she was a schoolmistress, was she ! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hunch and her daughter Clara. 
 
26 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch is a woman of fifty, perhaps a little 
 over. Her attire of wretched ostentation be- 
 speaks that subtle knowledge of handling the tailor, 
 which is born of a struggle against a genteel pov- 
 erty. Her daughter is a girl of about twenty; 
 weak, anemic and pretty. A romanticist would 
 associate her in his mind with the clinging vine; a 
 biologist with the white shoots which a potato 
 sends out in a dark cellar. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 There we are. I hope you weren't waiting very 
 long, Mr. Blake? [Drops into a chair.] Ugh! I'm 
 out of breath! It is dreadfully warm! Sit down, 
 Clara, rest yourself. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Moving a chair for Clara.] If you please, Miss 
 Hunch. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Sitting down.] Thank you. What a warm 
 Christmas ! I remember last year — it was so 
 cold! These changes in the weather are very un- 
 healthy. I always have a headache on a day like 
 this. 
 
act i. the quandary. 27 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 It is your age, my dear. When people are young 
 and have nothing else to think about, they com- 
 plain of headaches. Just wait till you get to be 
 of my age, my dear; you won't think of headaches 
 then. 
 
 Enter Sam. 
 
 . Sam. 
 
 Good morning, Mrs. Hunch. [Approaches 
 Clara cautiously.] How do you do, Miss Hunch? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Sam, good morning. Are we supposed to carry 
 all those baskets? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Beside Clara, who has just softly answered 
 his (< how do you do."] Yes, ma'am. I am here 
 to help you — if you don't mind. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hunter, simply and tastefully 
 dressed. She is 32 years of age; has exquisite 
 features, very intelligent eyes and thin wrinkles, 
 indicative of an intensity of disposition, which, 
 however, do not detract from her beauty. 
 
28 THE QUANDARY, ACT I. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Good morning. [To her husband.] Have I 
 kept you waiting? Pardon me, dear. The day is 
 so bright and beautiful that I could not resist the 
 temptation of a walk. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [To Sam, while the attention of the others is 
 engaged by Mrs. Hunter's entrance.] How have 
 you been, Mr. Higgins? Why don't you stop 
 down sometimes ? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Embarrassed.] Thank you, Miss Hunch. I 
 was going to, this afternoon. May I ? 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [With a look towards her mother.] Yes, come 
 — about two o'clock. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Miss Hunch, would you mind if — if I brought 
 along a little Christmas gift for you? Only some 
 flowers — 
 
act i. the quandary. 29 
 
 Clara. 
 This is ever so nice of you, Mr. Higgins. 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Approaches Clara and kisses her on the cheek.] 
 Good morning, dear. How are you feeling to- 
 day? Sam — you here? How are you? 
 
 Clara. 
 
 Thank you; quite well; only a little headache. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Flaunting the words awkwardly on Clara's at- 
 tention.] Thank you, Mrs, Hunter. I ought to 
 feel very happy today. Mr. Hunter has just made 
 me a very handsome Christmas present. He's 
 raised my wages two dollars a week. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 He has? Fine! And you shall get something 
 from me tonight besides. Don't fail to come. 
 Clara, you are coming over, of course. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [To her mother.] We are going to Mrs. Hun- 
 ter's tonight, aren't we? 
 
30 the quandary. act i. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Our annual Christmas night entertainment for 
 the benefit of the Society — of course ! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [While Hunter is removing his wife's shawl, 
 and helping her with her coat.] Yes, Mrs. Hunter, 
 a very beautiful day. All the greater is the out- 
 rage to one's sense of decency to see it profaned, as 
 it is in this city. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Profaned? What has happened? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Yes, profaned — the word isn't a bit too strong. 
 Why, one cannot pass a street without encounter- 
 ing on all hands the most offensive sights. [With 
 a deep sigh.] And this is how they celebrate 
 Christmas: all the beer saloons are open and 
 crowded with people ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Aside to Hunter.] Now watch the conversion 
 — he is taking her in hand. 
 
act i. the quandary. 31 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [With a little laugh.] And the soda-water shops, 
 too. Don't forget the soda-water, Mr. Fiedler. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 [Pleasantly staggered.] Soda water! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Yes, Mr. Fiedler, even soda water ! I am here 
 to testify that neither I nor any of my ethical col- 
 leagues in this city have written a prescription for 
 soda water in years. And yet they have been 
 selling that beverage on hot summer Sundays in 
 the drug stores by the tankful, under the specious 
 pretense of dispensing drugs. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 Permit me to remark, Dr. Merril, that the sale 
 of beverages in decent places is not a menace to 
 morality. But the beer saloons and fake hotels 
 — that is a different thing! Mr. Fiedler spoke 
 about the beer saloons. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 I am inclined to agree with Mr. Blake. 
 
32 the quandary. act i. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 As I was coming down the street I walked be- 
 hind two men, and from their conversation I could 
 make out that they were city councilmen. You 
 won't believe it, Mr. Fiedler — they both entered 
 a beer saloon. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 The liquor they are selling in those saloons — 
 swill ! poison — unfit for hogs ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 They were city councilmen, to be sure ! 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 I am not in the least surprised. After having 
 reduced the saloon license, and refused to take a 
 hand in banishing the houses of ill fame, it is only 
 natural to expect that our city fathers would by 
 their personal example give a moral lesson to 
 the people of this city. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 This is not a civilized city; it is a barbarous 
 den. — a — a Monte Carlo ! 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 33 
 
 Fiedler. 
 A Gomorrha ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 You should have seen the streets ! All the mov- 
 ing picture palaces have their doors gaping open, 
 ready to receive the heathen multitudes. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 A veritable midday saturnalia ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 And this is only a beginning! No sooner will 
 the sun go down than the dancing halls will throw 
 their doors open, and the theatres will be jammed 
 and crammed with people. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Perfectly horrifying! And the sun still shines, 
 and the gentle breezes have not turned into all- 
 destroying hurricanes ; and it is not improbable that 
 the earth — even the earth — continues in its course 
 around the sun so as to maintain the order of the 
 seasons. 
 
34 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Not improbable did you say? It is almost cer- 
 tain ! My wife has already hinted at an appro- 
 priation for a spring hat. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [To her husband, playfully.] Do you hear that, 
 dear? Don't you think you have a good wife? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, I gather from your remarks that 
 you are disposed to view this matter in a super- 
 ficial light. Just look here a minute. [Takes her 
 gently by the arm and approaches the lithographs 
 on the rear mall.] Do you see this? [Points at 
 "Step Oner] 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Studying the picture.] A homely girl, dressed 
 in bad taste, eating ice cream with a handsome and 
 well dressed young fellow, amid the luxuriant 
 tropical verdancy of a down-town ice cream par- 
 lor. 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 35 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Very true. And viewing it superficially it looks 
 almost like an innocent amusement? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [With affected anxiety.] Mr. Fiedler, you speak 
 as if the ice cream contained taratoxicon poison. 
 Is it poisoned ice cream, Doctor? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 You must ask Mr. Fiedler — he made the ice 
 cream. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 A most powerful poison, Mrs. Hunter, I as- 
 sure you ; it is a poison which is destructive of the 
 spirit. Spiritual poison, madam! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 That settles it. He has transferred ice cream 
 into the domain of spiritual toxicology. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 It ruins the soul, Mrs. Hunter. And here is the 
 proof of it: Step One, the girl is partaking of ice 
 cream; step nine — Look at step nine, Mrs. Hunter, 
 
36 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 and tell me what it is, if you please. [Views his 
 audience in triumph.} 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Examining "Step Nine. }} ] It is a grave-yard. 
 Then the poor girl died from eating the ice cream 
 after all? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Madam, it is potters' field that you are looking 
 at! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 How terrible! Do they bury people who die 
 from eating ice cream in potters' field in this city? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 No, Mrs. Hunter, no. You are laboring under 
 a complete misapprehension ! If you follow me 
 carefully a minute, you will grasp the situation 
 clearly. Step One, the girl is eating ice cream with 
 a young man. Step Two, they are at the entrance 
 of a moving picture palace. Step Three, they are 
 whirling in a giddy and sensuous dance, in one of 
 the down-town dancing halls, where they are pos- 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 37 
 
 sibly selling liquor downstairs. And now we come 
 to Step Four. What are they doing in Step Four, 
 Mrs. Hunter? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 It appears they are drinking red lemonade from 
 rather small glasses. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Hear her — lemonade ! And Mr. Fiedler its 
 author! Mrs. Hunter, permit me to inform you 
 that Mr. Fiedler is the originator of the idea that 
 had inspired the artist who executed these pictures. 
 Tell me, please, does it at all stand to reason that 
 Mr. Fiedler would have filled the glasses with red 
 lemonade? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Aha ! I thought so ! She has been laboring 
 under a misapprehension. [With a triumphant 
 sweep of his arm he shoves up the cuff from, his 
 right wrist and taps "Step Four" with his finger- 
 tips; then with surpassing solemnity.] Permit me 
 to inform you, Mrs. Hunter, that it is not red 
 lemonade, but plain whisky made into cocktails ! 
 [Assumes a heroic attitude.] 
 
38 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 And rotten whisky at that! The kind they 
 poison people with in the saloons and fake hotels. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I submit to Mr. Blake's superior knowledge. 
 
 Blake glares at her, then turns away, with a 
 significant nod to Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 But now we pass on to Step Five. That is plain 
 enough. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Yes, quite plain enough. The fellow is making 
 love to the girl. Ah, well ! It is going to turn 
 out a prosaic affair. The man will marry the girl 
 and live happy ever afterwards. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [Emphatically.] Nothing of the sort, Mrs. 
 Hunter ! Nothing of the sort ! Here, here is the 
 sinister ending. Step Six, the girl is in a brothel. 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 39 
 
 Mrs. Huntep 
 Why, Mr. Fiedler? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 She asks why! What else would you expect, 
 after the girl had eaten ice cream, had gone to a 
 moving picture palace, danced the turkey trot, 
 drank Mr. Fiedler's cocktails and been made love 
 to by a man? It's no use, Mr. Fiedler, woman's 
 mind never did understand why the eating of an 
 apple could result in a curse upon the human race. 
 What more could we expect from a rib ! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [Continuing.] Step Seven, she is plying her 
 trade on the streets of the city in a dark night, in 
 a downpour of rain. Step Eight, she is flinging 
 herself from the bridge into the roaring river. 
 And, finally, Step Nine, is her everlasting rest in 
 potters' field. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [To her husband.] Shall we cut out the ice 
 cream tonight, dear? 
 
40 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [To Fiedler.] Now then. Do you see what 
 you have done ? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [Disconcerted.] Mrs. Hunter, it appears to me 
 that you entirely misunderstood me ; I — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Oh, stop that! Stop that! You'll spoil it all; if 
 you keep it up for another five minutes Mrs. Hun- 
 ter will cut out the oysters, then the chicken, and 
 then the cider; and we shall go home from the 
 entertainment and supper surcharged with the 
 virtue of red lemonade, and bursting with the 
 morality of vice crusade talk. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [Wiping the perspiration engendered by his ef- 
 fort.] Hem — m — Those baskets — Are you ready, 
 Mrs. Hunch? You may run down Amity Lane, 
 just around the corner, with a couple of these, with 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 41 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 I am dreadfully fatigued. What would you say 
 to initiating my girl into the work? [To her daugh- 
 ter.] My dear, there's nothing so good for a 
 headache as a little walk in the fresh air. I dare- 
 say you never did see what those people of the 
 underworld really looked like. Mr. Blake, you 
 won't object if Clara took my place? I daresay 
 she'll be far better company than I am for a con- 
 firmed old bachelor like you. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 [Bowing low.} I shall be delighted, I'm sure. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [Significantly to Clara.] Remember, dear, it's 
 for your own happiness. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Goes forward reluctantly and tries to lift a 
 basket.] How heavy! [Directs an appealing look 
 to Sam.] 
 
42 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 If you please, Mr. Blake, I'll carry the baskets 
 for you. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter ) holding on to her husband's arm, 
 takes in the situation keenly. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Oh, that's all right, Sam. Mr. Blake is strong 
 enough. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Taking two baskets.} Thank you, Sam. I'll 
 carry them myself. The labor of love, you know. 
 
 Exeunt Blake and Clara. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Sam, hadn't you, too, best run down with a 
 couple of these? 
 
 Sam. 
 Yes, sir. 
 
 Fiedler hands him an address. Exit Sam. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Mr. Blake is in the hotel business, isn't he? 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 43 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Yes, dear. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [ To Dr. MerriL] I was just wondering whether 
 the hotel business was quite compatible with the 
 strong vice suppressing proclivities of its owner. 
 What do you say, Doctor ? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Some twenty years ago I knew something about 
 the incompatibility of certain drugs with certain 
 other drugs; I have forgotten all about it by this 
 time. But as to the incompatibilities of certain 
 businesses with certain temperamental proclivities 
 
 I n ever even pretended to know anything about 
 
 it. I shall be pleased, however, to refer you to 
 Mr. Fiedler. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [In reply to Mrs. Hunter's questioning look.] 
 Well— it's just this : the fact is that the suppression 
 of saloons and disorderly houses cannot really hurt 
 a decent hotel business. 
 
44 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 No! It cannot possibly hurt it! I perfectly 
 agree with Mr. Fiedler. Can it, Hunter? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Thoroughly disgusted.} No! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 How modest those men are ! [After a pause, to 
 Mrs. Hunch.} I wonder why Mr. Blake never 
 married? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Ah, well. Those rich bachelors are not in a 
 hurry. They have other things to occupy their 
 minds with. Besides — they do marry in the end, 
 when the right party comes along. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Dr. Merril, as a physician, do you think those 
 late marriages are quite wholesome — from a moral 
 viewpoint? 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 45 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 I am a general practitioner, Mrs. Hunter, and 
 can only refer you to the specialist. [Pointing to 
 Fiedler.] We live in an age of specialties. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 I think I can answer your query, Mrs. Hunter, 
 by saying that "lead us not into temptation" is our 
 daily prayer. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 By temptation you mean marriage, of course? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [With all the weight of his respectability.] No, 
 sir ! No, sir 1 I mean nothing of the sort, sir ! Just 
 the contrary, sir! I mean that the way to avoid 
 temptation is to marry as early— [He suddenly 
 stops to consider.] Well— as early as circum- 
 stances would permit. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 This is the man's viewpoint, of course. But 
 to my mind it seems that as far as the woman is 
 concerned, it is certainly of advantage to her to 
 marry a man who is past his period of philandering. 
 
46 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 What do you mean, Mrs. Hunch? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 It is simple enough. You know as well as I do 
 what those young men are. As long as they are 
 unmarried — God forgive them; but God help 
 their young wives when they are married! If I 
 were to live it over again I wouldn't marry a young 
 man for a fortune ! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 But they are not all alike, Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 No; some are worse than others. A lot of 
 roosters all! No, thanks; no young man for my 
 girl — Not if I can help it ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 For instance — If you were especially interested 
 in the welfare of a young girl — Would you ad- 
 vise her to marry a man of Mr. Blake's type? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation. 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 47 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Do you think, a young girl could get herself to 
 love a man like Mr. Blake? 
 
 - Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Oh, bosh ! I have little patience with that sort 
 of sentimental nonsense! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [Uncomfortable.] Pardon me for interrupting. 
 — Those baskets- 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Just a minute, Mr. Fiedler. [Presses her hus- 
 band's arm nervously.] Are you quite convinr 
 Mrs. Hunch, that Mr. Blake is, the proper man to 
 make a young girl happy? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 God bless you, dear! What a bunch of old- 
 fashioned sentimentality you are! Why, what's 
 the matter with Mr. Blake? 
 
48 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Well — for one thing, he is — old. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 What nonsense ! The girl won't have to wear 
 her life away with jealousy and all that. I dare- 
 say Mr. Blake is all through sowing his wild oats! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 But, Mrs. Hunch, haven't you noticed, he is — 
 he is — weak in his legs. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [Rises, approaches Mrs. Hunter, and slaps her 
 playfully on the cheek.] Ha, ha! What a little 
 dear you are ! Weak in his legs ! — Ha, ha ! When 
 you acepted Mr. Hunter you didn't stop to con- 
 sider his legs, did you? It wouldn't be quite the 
 right thing for a young girl to think about — Would 
 it, Mr. Fiedler? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 Well — I must say — it would be rather indelicate. 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 49 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Nervous and undecided.] Pardon me, Mrs. 
 Hunch — that wasn't exactly what I meant to say. 
 Let me see — how shall I put it? [With a gesture 
 indicative of impatience with herself.] Oh, yes. 
 I meant to say that Mr. Blake didn't appear to 
 me to be — in quite the best state of health. [With 
 a sense of relief, to her husband.] Don't you think 
 so, dear? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Ha, ha ! Well — I declare ! What do you think 
 of that! Not in the best of health — ha, ha ! My 
 dear, he's in better health than you or I. I dare- 
 say the old rascal will outlive us both ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Dr. Merril, you have known Mr. Blake for quite 
 a while; what do you think of it? [Dr. Merril 
 is slightly staggered, but quickly rights himself and 
 looks nonchalantly at Mrs. Hunter.] Why don't 
 you answer, Doctor? [She suddenly loses control 
 over herself and raises her voice.] Mr. Blake has 
 been a patient of yours, no doubt. Why don't 
 you speak, Dr. Merril? 
 
50 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Blessing the shades for having lost the capacity 
 for blushing or blanching years ago.] What must 
 I say, Mrs. Hunter? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Regaining control over herself.) Pardon me, 
 Dr. Merril. We shall talk later — Well— I expect 
 to see you later in the day. I haven't been feeling 
 quite well. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 That reminds me. Clara has been complaining 
 of headaches lately. Won't you step in, Doctor, 
 sometime this afternoon? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Enter Mr. Coleman, A. B., Ph. D., the exec- 
 utive secretary of the Association, a not over-pros- 
 perous looking individual of 35. 
 
 Hunter. 
 [Eagerly.] Mr. Coleman — how do you do, 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 51 
 
 sir? Any news? Have you heard from Buenos 
 Ayres ? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Not a thing. I think we've had as much of that 
 business as is good for us. To make another step 
 in that direction — to write another word, to spend 
 another cent, would be the height of folly ! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 The height of folly! I agree with Mr. Cole- 
 man. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Agitated.] But what could have become of 
 her? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 [Approaches "Step Nine" and taps it with his 
 knuckles.] Here, sir, here! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Horrified.] In potters' field! But where? - 
 have you any proof? 
 
52 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 The surest proof, Mr. Hunter — statistical 
 proof! Our statistics show clearly that the aver- 
 age life of a fallen woman as such is five years. 
 I have treated this subject at length in my thesis 
 for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy some years 
 ago. Five years to a day ! It is now ten years 
 since the Higgins girl has run off. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Gracious — the Higgins girl again! 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 As executive secretary of the Association I wish, 
 Mr. Hunter, that you would follow my advice in 
 this matter, and consider it as closed. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 The only practical course to pursue ! 
 
 W Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Let us consider the matter rationally. [Looks 
 •about him.] That fellow Sam is not around? Well 
 then. Here is a vain and ignorant girl, an em- 
 ployee in your canning establishment. 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 53 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Yes, yes — in my canning establishment — ever 
 since she was a child ! 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Working for as good a wage and under as fair 
 conditions — for a better wage, and under fairer 
 conditions than she could have obtained anywhere 
 else ! I have statistics that will bear that out. Her 
 father, as we all know, happens to be a shiftless 
 an irresponsible, a brutal person. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 An abandoned drunkard. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 An inveterate alcoholic. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [To Dr. Merril, as Mrs. Hunter turns away 
 with her hand on her temple.] Everybody seems 
 to be having a headache today. 
 
54 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 He, too, at the time happens to be an employee 
 of yours. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Mechanically.] Yes, he, too, an employee of 
 mine. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Well, then. The girl is too weak to withstand 
 the brutalities of her drunken father; her vanity, 
 her thoughtlessness and her ignorance get the best 
 of her — 
 
 Fiedler. 
 And the innate corruption of her heart — 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 Yes, and that too, the innate corruption of 
 heart — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 There, now ! They are coining new medical 
 terms ! 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 55 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 My dear Doctor, they are not medical terms — 
 they are moral terms ! Morality, too, has its tech- 
 nical terms, Doctor. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Then make them at least look respectable; say 
 endocarditis, moral endocarditis. Short and sweet. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Dr. Merril, this is not the time for hairsplitting 
 over mere technicalities. Where was I? Yes. 
 Well, I say, all these things get the best of her, 
 she runs off and becomes a prostitute. She is 
 neither seen nor heard from for nearly ten years. 
 According to our statistics she must be dead; she 
 is therefore dead, and that settles it. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Mr. Coleman, you cannot enter into my feelings 
 regarding this matter. The girl was — [He stops 
 short and looks imploringly towards Dr. Merril] 
 
56 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Hurriedly.] The girl was an employee of his, 
 you see. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Yes — an employee of mine; and her father 
 too, and her brother Sam — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 But how could you help her running away, dear? 
 Besides, as you hear — she's dead. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Well, I must be going. How about your annual 
 report, Doctor? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Duly turned in. Mr. Fiedler has it. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Very well then. Good morning. [Goes towards 
 the door.} 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 57 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 But the proof — the proof of her death ! 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 Statistics, sir, statistics! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Making a stride towards him.] But, Mr. Cole- 
 man — 
 
 Exit Coleman. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Oh, come, Hunter! Why won't you admit a 
 charitable probability in the girl's favor? Give 
 her the benefit of your doubt and leave her alone ! 
 Grant that by the one act of her death the girl 
 foiled a dozen Associations for the Suppression 
 of Vice; slipped out of the velvet hold of all the 
 sweet charity in the country; skipped the traps 
 of our efficient police forces; baffled the majesty 
 of the law; turned her back on the photographer 
 and the professional moralist; and has discarded 
 our soul-foods, our Christmas dinners, honest em- 
 ployment at four dollars a week with the brilliant 
 prospects of climbing to the heights of a menial 
 
58 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 servant; and all the rest of it. It is very humiliat- 
 ing, to be sure, to have to admit that the best ef- 
 forts of the best, the most virtuous people in the 
 country couldn't keep one weak girl out of the 
 hereafter and down to an honest job in a can- 
 nery — but what will you do? With the advance 
 of civilization the resurrection of the dead — even 
 the statistically dead — has become quite an impos- 
 sibility. Cheer up ! Our benevolent employers 
 will not lack employees, and our Christmas din- 
 ners [kicks a basket with his foot] will not lack 
 eaters. 
 
 Enter Blake and Clara. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 Well? How is our woman on Amity Lane? 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 Dead drunk, thank you. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 [With intense indignation.] Drunk! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Mr. Blake didn't say drunk, Mr. Fiedler; he 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 59 
 
 said dead drunk. Our one white hope, and she 
 had virtue enough left in her to get dead drunk 
 and so spare herself the profound bow and the 
 "I am deeply grateful, sir," that tickle so our lach- 
 rymal apparatuses. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Dropping into a chair.] Those stairs will be 
 the death of me ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [After studying the faces of Clara and Blake.] 
 We'll be going, dear. 
 
 Clara. 
 Yes, mother. [They go towards the door.] 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Runs after Clara, takes hold of both her shoul- 
 ders and looks intently into her face.] My poor 
 girl. You are not looking well. 
 
 Clara. 
 This unseasonable weather — 
 
60 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 1 shall see you by and by, dear. You must pick 
 up a little courage — courage, dear, remember. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 We shall meet you all at Mrs. Hunter's tonight. 
 Don't forget to stop in, Doctor. Good morning. 
 
 Exeunt Mrs. and Miss Hunch. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Those baskets, Mr. Hunter. It is past lunch 
 time. We must deliver them. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Suddenly awakened.] Yes — To be sure — Of 
 course. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 How about you, Doctor? But I suppose you 
 have some professional calls to make. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [To his wife; hesitating.] Would you like to 
 come along, dear? 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 61 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 No; I'd rather wait here. Mr. Blake will keep 
 me company in the meanwhile — Won't you, Mr, 
 Blake? 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 I shall be delighted, I'm sure. 
 
 Hunter. 
 Very well, then. We shan't be very long. 
 Exeunt Fiedler, Hunter and Dr. Merril. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Mr. Blake— [She settles herself in a chair and 
 motions Blake to one at the opposite end of the 
 room. He, however, sits down in one quite near 
 to her, then adjusts it so as to face her. A long 
 pause ensues.] 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 Yes, Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Beats a tattoo on the arm of the chair.] I — 
 I— 
 
62 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 [Clearing his throat.] Well? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Mastering her agitation.] Mr. Blake, do you 
 really intend to propose to Miss Hunch? 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Lighting a cigar.] May I? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Certainly. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Puffing away.] Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 I have asked you a question. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 Pardon me — what was it? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Do you intend to propose to Miss Hunch? 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 63 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Adjusting the cigar in his mouth.] That is 
 rather a personal question. Still, there is no rea- 
 son for beating about the bush over it. I have pro- 
 posed already. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 With what result? 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Inspecting the band on his cigar.] Can't you 
 imagine ? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 You were rejected, of course? 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 What? Ha, ha ! How could you think of such 
 a thing, Mrs. Hunter! Rejected — The idea! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Losing control over herself.] And you dared 
 to — ! [Her agitation does not permit her to con- 
 tinue.] 
 
64 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Blows away the smoke from before his face, 
 crosses his legs, settles himself in a comfortable at- 
 titude, and assumes an air of supreme composure. 
 He knows his customer to perfection. His ob- 
 vious intention is to let her exhaust herself by the 
 intensity of her own emotions — a ruse analogous 
 to that adopted by prize-fighters. He, therefore, 
 waits before replying long enough to let her use 
 up her stock of nervous ordnance, yet not so long 
 as to enable her to lay in a new one.} And may 
 I be permitted to inquire what has given you the 
 impression that I should have asked your permis- 
 sion regarding this matter? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 You are an unspeakable — ! Well, I'd better 
 not say it — just yet ! 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 H'm ! The manner of your address reminds 
 me forciblyof a woman I once knew [He rises, ap- 
 proaches the fireplace, brushes into it the ashes of 
 his cigar, replaces the latter between his lips with 
 a smart tilt, and returns to his seat.] 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 65 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I don't give a scrap of whom I remind you, but 
 you'll not have that girl ! 
 
 Why not? 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Do you want me to give you reasons? You'd 
 better take the hint, and leave her alone ! 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 You are talking nonsense, Mrs. Hunter. It 
 is true, I am not a dashing young hero. But the 
 girl hasn't a penny to her soul. If I marry her 
 she'll be a lady. I mean a real lady, and not a 
 shadow of one, a penniless lady that she is now. 
 She'll have everything that goes to make a real 
 lady — dresses, automobiles, trips abroad, country 
 residences, the opera, and all that. And what 
 is more than that, she'll have a-plenty of admirers, 
 where today she has none. You know as well as 
 I do that the young men of today have mighty 
 little admiration for a penniless lady — except per- 
 haps such as our young Sam Higgins. 
 
66 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 A better man than you ever were — certainly than 
 you can ever hope to be ! 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [With the utmost composure.} Perhaps, Mrs. 
 Hunter, perhaps — for you and for Mr. Hunter. 
 A good boy, a steady worker; takes a laudable in- 
 terest in morality, doesn't drink, gamble, smoke, 
 or run after women. A good boy, unquestionably. 
 I have made up my mind to give him a nice Christ- 
 mas present. But as a lady's admirer — how little 
 satisfaction there can be to the lady from an ad- 
 miration from that source ! The very mention of 
 it would spoil her chances ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 At least — he is — in good health. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 What do you mean to imply by that? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 You know very well what I mean to imply by 
 that! 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 67 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Jumps to his feet, trembling with fury.~\ Look 
 here you d — [He manages to control himself, but 
 remains standing for a while, during which they 
 gaze at each other intently.] 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Sitting down.] You will abandon your plan, 
 then? 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [After a pause; apparently subdued.] Mrs. 
 Hunter, you are mistaken. I am in as good a 
 state of health as any man of my age. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Mr. Fiedler will possibly believe you. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 Here is my word of honor, Mrs. Hunter, that 
 I haven't been to see a doctor for — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 That's all right. You just leave that girl alone. 
 
68 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Curtly.] Look here, Mrs. Hunter, I have 
 evinced a disposition to be friendly — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I appreciate it very much, I'm sure. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 But if you persist in interfering in my affairs — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Rises, enraged.] What? You are threaten- 
 ing me? [Stamps her foot.] Is this a threat? 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 [With massive calmness.] Yes, ma'am, it is. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Very well, then. [Picks up her coat and begins 
 putting it on.] 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Approaches her and taps her familiarly on the 
 
Act I. The Quandary. 69 
 
 shoulder.] Come, come, Mrs. Hunter, better let 
 us be friends. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Shrinking away from him.] Sit down there! 
 [He obeys.] Look here, Mr. Blake, if you ever 
 dare to threaten me again, I shall — 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 What? Kill me perhaps? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 No; not that. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 No; I shouldn't think you would. They probe 
 so at the trial for possible motives. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Of course; and then all sorts of exposures fol- 
 low. 
 
70 The Quandary. Act I. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Bursts out roaring with laughter.] Ho, ho, h 
 ho ! This is what I call talking sense ! Ho, ho, 
 ho, ho! How familiar is all that! How very 
 familiar! Ho, ho, ho, ho! 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 71 
 
 ACT 2. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 A room in Mrs. Hunch's apartments. Two 
 o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 A modestly and neatly furnished room. It has 
 two doors; one at the rear communicates with the 
 vestibule, the other at the left leads into the inner 
 apartments. On the right is an open fireplace 
 with a mantelpiece above it. On a small table in 
 the rear is a telephone. 
 
 Clara is trying to engage herself in something. 
 She picks up a book, tries to read it, then puts it 
 away. She adjusts the centerpiece on the table, 
 then stops as if asking herself what she was about. 
 She then approaches a vase of flowers on the man- 
 telpiece, takes the flowers from it, and finds them 
 wilted. She tries to put them to rights and finds 
 it impossible, the petals falling to the floor from 
 the slightest jar. She finally gathers the fallen 
 petals from the floor, cautiously carries the flowers 
 into the inner apartments and returns. There is 
 a knock on the door. She runs to it and opens it. 
 
 Enter Sam Higgins, carrying a bouquet of 
 flowers. 
 
72 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Clara. 
 [With pleasant surprise.] Hello! 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Embarrassed.] Good afternoon. [He removes 
 the tissue paper from the flowers and hands them 
 to her.] Do you like these? 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Taking the flowers and smelling them.] The) 
 are beautiful. It is ever so nice of you, Mr. Hig- 
 gins. Come here. Take off your coat. [He 
 takes off his coat.] Give it to me. [She puts away 
 the flowers on the table.] 
 
 Sam. 
 
 No, no ! Just tell me where to put it — I'll put it 
 away myself. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 Oh, that's all right ! [ Takes the coat from him.] 
 Your hat too. [She carries the hat and coat into 
 the vestibule. Sam follows her with his eyes, 
 evidently amazed at seeing an ethereal being do 
 such things.] 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 73 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Reentering.] Mamma is taking her afternoon 
 nap. Come here, let's sit down and talk. You 
 sit here. How is your father? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Thank you. He is much better. He was out 
 this morning. You know, the trouble with him is 
 that he drinks once in a while. Fve been trying 
 my best to keep him away from it, but — [He 
 heaves a deep sigh.] 
 
 Clara. 
 Poor old man ! 
 
 Sam. 
 
 You know, Miss Hunch, he isn't really a drunk- 
 ard — 
 
 Clara. 
 No, of course not! 
 
 Sam. 
 You know, they all think he is. 
 
74 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 Who does? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Mr. Fiedler, Mr. Coleman, and — and — your 
 mother. But he isn't, really. It's only once in 
 a while — a very great while — that he gets those 
 spells. 
 
 Clara. 
 What spells ? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Just spells of — of — I don't exactly know what 
 to call them. He becomes downcast, disheartened 
 — oh, so disheartened; and then he drinks. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 Poor man; he must have suffered much in his 
 life. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Yes; you know, of course, the trouble we've had 
 — about my sister Lizzie, I mean. 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 75 
 
 Clara. 
 Yes; IVe heard something about it. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 I'm sure she's been dead a long time. Mr. 
 Fiedler and Mr. Coleman and everybody thinks 
 so. But father won't listen to them. Every time 
 he sees Mr. Hunter, or Mrs. Hunter, he talks 
 about her. 
 
 Clara. 
 Mrs. Hunter is a very nice woman, isn't she? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Oh, yes, she's been very kind to us; and Mr. 
 Hunter too. You know, he raised my wages 
 today. [With a confidential air.] Do you know, 
 Miss Hunch— 
 
 Clara. 
 [Smiling happily.] What? 
 
 Sam. 
 You know, I'm pretty sure that one of these 
 
76 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 days I'll be foreman in the cannery. I know it 
 from a hint that Mrs. Hunter let drop yesterday. 
 Don't you think it'd be fine? 
 
 Clara. 
 Yes. Very. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 But one has to know so much — you wouldn't 
 think. You know, everything must be written 
 down : so much of this and so much of that — down 
 to half-ounces and quarter-ounces. But I am get- 
 ting on to it. I'm studying hard. It's fractions 
 that I am having a little trouble with. Did you 
 ever study fractions, Miss Hunch? 
 
 Clara. 
 
 Yes. But don't let us talk about all that. And 
 don't call me Miss Hunch. [Tears off a flower 
 from the bouquet and adjusts it in his lapel.} Call 
 me Clara, and I will call you Sam. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Utterly flabbergasted.} Miss — Oh — thank you. 
 It sounds so strange to call you — 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 77 
 
 Clara. 
 Come, say it, let me hear— 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Droops his head, slowly raises his eyes to her, 
 smiles, then stammers out:} Clara. [He looks 
 about him, as if surprised that a terrible cataclysm 
 has not taken place; then gathers courage.] Clara. 
 It is such a beautiful name. 
 
 Clara. 
 Is it ? You may always call me by that name. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Not in the presence of — company? 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Struck by his foresight.] Well — when we are 
 alone call me Clara. 
 
 Sam. 
 Clara. [Rubs his lips and chews awkwardly.] 
 
 Clara. 
 Do you want some water? 
 
78 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Yes, if you please. I'm not really thirsty; but 
 my mouth is so dry. It's come on me just now. 
 
 Clara goes to the inner apartments and returns 
 with a glass of water. 
 
 Clara. 
 Here. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Takes a few swallows and sets the glass down 
 on the table.] Thank you, Miss Hunch. 
 
 Clara. 
 Clara. 
 
 Sam. 
 [Smiling.] Clara. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Threatening him with her forefinger.] Look 
 out, Sam — don't forget! 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 79 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Don't you know, J dreamed that you called me 
 Sam and I called you Clara. 
 
 Clara. 
 You did? How wonderful! 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Oh, but I dreamed of that so many times. Don't 
 you know, I dream an awful lot. Do you ever 
 dream ? 
 
 Clara. 
 
 Yes, sometimes. Tell me, what do you dream 
 about? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 About so many things. But mostly about what 
 I am going to do when I get to be — well, when I 
 get to be foreman, or superintendent, and all that. 
 Sometimes I dream that I am out of work, look- 
 ing for a job. 
 
80 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Adjusting the flowers in the vase on the mantel- 
 piece.] And when you get to be foreman or su- 
 perintendent — what do you do then? I mean in 
 your dream? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Rises and walks to the centre of the room.] 
 Oh, I think about it so often — I mean when I am 
 awake. I am ashamed to say it. 
 
 Clara. 
 [Smiling at him.] Come, come, tell me. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Well — how I might be a director in the Associa- 
 tion for the Suppression of Vice, and what 1 
 might do. And then, how I might — get married. 
 
 Clara. 
 Oh! You have a girl — is she pretty? 
 
 Sam. 
 No, not yet — but she is — very pretty — I think. 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 81 
 
 Clara. 
 
 Then you are in love? Will you tell me who 
 the girl is? Is she working with you in the can- 
 nery? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 No, no! She is not working at all. I — I can't 
 tell you, Miss — Clara. 
 
 Clara. 
 [Pouting prettily.] I'm mad with you, Sam. 
 
 Sam. 
 Oh, please, don't be angry with me. 
 
 Clara. 
 Because you won't tell me. 
 
 Sam. 
 I'll tell you then. 
 
 Clara. 
 Come — quickly — do ! 
 
82 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Goes to the table J swallows some water from 
 the glass and returns.] But you must promise me — 
 
 Clara. 
 What? 
 
 Sam. 
 Not to be angry with me. 
 
 Clara. 
 If you tell me, I won't. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Gasping for breath.] It's — it's — you. [Re- 
 mains distressed and embarrassed.) 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Grasps her temple f as if struck.] Oh ! [A short 
 pause.] It is my fault — I shouldn't have done it — 
 I shouldn't have asked you ! But I — I didn't mean 
 anything! [Covers her face with her hands.] 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 83 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Please, Miss Hunch, forgive me. I didn't want 
 to tell it to you. I have been thinking about you 
 so much— Oh, so much! Once I dreamed that 
 you died, and I was ill after that for a whole 
 week. At night, when it is dark, and 1 lie awake, 
 I think I can see you — 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Pained.] Don't think about it— please don't. 
 You know— it is quite impossible !— What am I 
 saying? — Yes— quite— It can never be. Never. 
 Forget me— please do! Never think of it again.' 
 But you must promise me— always to be my friend 
 —Always — Under all circumstances. Promise me, 
 Sam. 
 
 Sam. 
 I promise— Always — 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Suddenly throws her arms around his neck.] 
 Oh, Sam— You are so good and kind I Oh, if you 
 only knew! But you won't think ill of me— say 
 you won't! 
 
84 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 . Sam. 
 
 ....[Utterly overwhelmed and broken in spirit, he 
 at first stands plumb straight, then puts his arms 
 around her.} No; never — nev — 
 
 Mrs. Hunch appears in the door at the left. 
 Sam's embrace, weak as it is j suddenly relaxes; 
 his eyes grow big; his mouth remains open; he 
 is struck dumb. 
 
 Clara. 
 
 [Who is standing with her back to the door and, 
 therefore, does not notice her mother's entrance.} 
 What is it, Sam, dear? [She turns her head in 
 the direction of the door, and suddenly takes a few 
 rapid strides backward.} Oh! 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [Coming forward and motioning Clara towards 
 the door.} Go to your room! [Clara obeys, her 
 mother accompanying her with a look of the pro- 
 foundest contempt. Sam finds himself moving 
 slowly towards the door in the rear.} You wait! 
 [In a milder tone.} I want to speak to you, Sam. 
 Wait. Come here; sit down [He obeys meekly.} 
 Now, what have you got to say? 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 85 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Completely demolished.] Nothing. I don't 
 know what to say. It was all my fault. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [With utmost suavity.] That's very nice of 
 you, Sam, to take the fault upon yourself. It 
 shows that you have the blood of a gentleman in 
 you. Now, if you are the gentleman I take you 
 to be, you must promise me one thing. 
 
 Sam. 
 What is it? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Just this: Never to attempt anything of the 
 sort again. Never to allow it even to cross your 
 thoughts. And — most important of all — never 
 to mention what has just happened to anyone. 
 Sam, you are a good and honest boy; tell me, do 
 you quite understand that if you communicated 
 this affair to any of your friends, it would mean 
 ruin to my daughter? Tell me, do you have suffi- 
 cient regard for my daughter not to ruin her de- 
 liberately ? 
 
86 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Almost trembling.] I shall never mention it 
 to anybody — I promise you — never ! Not if it cost 
 me my life ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 You are a good boy, Sam. You are a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Sam. 
 Mrs. Hunch — 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Don't be afraid to talk to me, Sam. Speak 
 freely — as if I were your mother. I know what it 
 is to be young; I know what it is to cherish affec- 
 tions. Say whatever you please — freely, and with- 
 out reserve. What were you going to say? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [With a choking sensation in his throat.] Mrs. 
 Hunch — you're so kind to me ! Will you believe 
 me, Mrs. Hunch, when I give you my word of 
 honor, that — I had no bad intentions? 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 87 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 I am certain of that, Sam. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 That — that I love your daughter truly and faith- 
 fully; that I would gladly give my life for her — 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 I believe you, Sam; I believe you. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch — Would you object if— if Clara 
 consented to be my wife? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Listen, Sam. What is your wages in the can- 
 nery? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 » 
 
 I was raised today. I'll be getting now twelve 
 dollars a week. 
 
88 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Now tell me, Sam , would you expect your wife — 
 my daughter Clara — you say you love her ever so 
 much — would you expect her to make your coffee 
 in the morning, to cook your dinners and prepare 
 your lunch? — To wash your clothes and scrub the 
 floors ? You know, twelve dollars a week wouldn't 
 suffice to keep a servant. Who would do all the 
 housework? You couldn't do it — you'd have to 
 work all day. You know, Sam, a gentleman — 
 mind you, I am speaking of a gentleman, a man 
 of sense and honor — a gentleman who really loves 
 a lady wouldn't expect her to leave a good home 
 and become a servant girl. Tell me, Sam, am I 
 wrong? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 No. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 I am right, then? You agree with me? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Yes. 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 89 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Then you understand, of course, how very un- 
 kind and unjust it would be for me to consent to 
 my girl's becoming your wife? 
 
 Sam. 
 I do. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 And you also understand how unkind and un- 
 just it would be of you to ask her to become your 
 wife? 
 
 Sam. 
 I do. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Now, that's a good boy ! Sam, I always did take 
 you for a good and true and honest boy. Luck 
 will come your way some day, Sam. Luck always 
 comes to those who do not permit their feelings 
 to dominate the better parts of their nature. Now, 
 then, Sam, this closes the affair. We shall remain 
 the best of friends. Remember — nothing has hap- 
 
90 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 pened; nothing has been done, nothing has been 
 said. 
 
 Sam. 
 [Crushed to nothingness.] Nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 Good-bye, then, Sam. Here is my hand. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Good-ibye. [They shake hands. Exit Mrs. 
 Hunch.] 
 
 Sam rises and goes to the door in the rear. As 
 he opens it he walks into Dr. Merril. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Sam — hello! Wait a second. [Gets hold of 
 Sains shoulder and drags him hack into the room.] 
 Is Mrs. Hunch in? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Yes, sir ; she's there. [Points to the door on the 
 left and returns towards that in the rear.] 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 91 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Hello, there! Wait a minute — don't hurry. 
 Come here, sit down. 
 
 Sam. 
 I am a little in a hurry — I — I must go, Doctor. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Oh, come! You'll complete the salvation of 
 fallen womanhood a few minutes later. Come 
 here, sit down. [Sam returns reluctantly.] What's 
 the trouble with the fellow today? Sit down, I 
 say, don't you hear me? 
 
 Sam. 
 Yes sir. [Sits down.] 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 You wait here a minute, Sam. [Knocks on the 
 left door; from within is heard "come in! y Dr. 
 Merril passes into the inner apartment and returns 
 shortly.] All right. I just told Mrs. Hunch we 
 were here, to leave us alone for a few minutes. 
 [Moves a chair near Sam.] Now, Sam, what's 
 the trouble with you? 
 
92 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Sam. 
 Nothing in particular. Doctor. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 [Feeling his pulse.] Do you cough at all? 
 
 Sam. 
 No, not at all. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 How is your appetite? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Very good at times; then again, at other times 
 I hardly feel like eating for days and days. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Now, what is that feeling about your head and 
 forehead which you complained of this morning? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 Oh, well, it isn't anything very bad; it isn't al- 
 ways there. A feeling of weight about the top of 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 93 
 
 the head, and the forehead feels thick, numb, you 
 know. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 You keep the windows of your bedroom open at 
 night? 
 
 Sam. 
 Yes; always. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [After a pause.} Now, tell me, Sam, is there 
 anything — in your conduct — of which you might 
 have reason to be — to be ashamed? I mean, is — 
 is — what they call your conscience — quite as right 
 as you would like it to be? 
 
 Sam. 
 [Hesitating.] My conscience ? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Now, Sam, forget for a minute the Association 
 for the Suppression of Vice. Forget Mr. Fiedler, 
 morality, virtue, vice, the innate corruption of the 
 heart, and all that. Bear in mind that doctors, like 
 
94 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 the daisies and dead men, never tell. If you want 
 me to give you good advice, Sam, you will be per- 
 fectly candid with me. There are, of course, cow- 
 ards, who will lie even to their doctor. I have 
 sufficient faith in you, Sam, not to count you among 
 such. The mere telling it to me may help you, if 
 nothing more. Now, have you courage enough 
 to tell me the truth — the whole truth about — 
 
 Their conversation becomes lower; then so low 
 that it is hardly audible; then, for some minutes, 
 it is altogether inaudible. Only by the manner of 
 the two men can one tell that Sam is under the 
 doctor's u third degree!' At the end of the con- 
 versation Sam remains zvith his chin on his chest, 
 and his hands folded on his thigh, in an atttitude 
 of utter helplessness and submission. The doctor, 
 with his hand on his chin, is absorbed in thought. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Rising suddenly.] Well, let us see what we 
 can do. [He pulls out a prescription-pad and pen- 
 cil from his pocket and writes. He then examines 
 his writing, drops his hands to his sides ) and re- 
 mains motionless, evidently in doubt how to pro- 
 ceed. Suddenly he seems to have arrived at a de- 
 cision; he replaces the pencil in his vestpocket, pulls 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 95 
 
 off the written sheet from the pad and tears it de- 
 liberately to pieces.} Foolishness! [Replaces the 
 pieces of paper in one of his coat-pockets and the 
 pad in the other.] There goes your medicine! 
 
 Sam. 
 Won't you prescribe me something, Doctor? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Yes; you go down to the druggist and tell him 
 to compound you a wife. 
 
 Sam. 
 Is that all, Doctor? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Isn't that enough? Believe me, Sam, it's all 
 humbug; my drugs will do no more for you 
 than Mr. Fiedler's morality-sermons. What you 
 need is to take a wife unto yourself. The fact is, 
 my boy, you have an unfavorable family-history. 
 It is an inherited inclination with you. You were 
 born of a father who was married ; and your father, 
 in his turn, was also born of a father who was 
 married; and so on for some hundreds of millions 
 
96 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 of generations, down to the miscroscopic proto- 
 zoon, who had the habit, whenever his job of mul- 
 tiplying bv fission gave out, to contract a partner- 
 ship with another protozoon. and so start the busi- 
 ness afresh over again. I am afraid that neither 
 I, nor Mr. Fiedler, nor even Mr. Coleman, A. B., 
 Ph. D., will ever undo the mischief into which 
 your grandfather the protozoon of a hundred mil- 
 lion years ago had got you into. Get married, Sam. 
 
 Sam. 
 On twelve dollars a week? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 H'm ! There's something in that ! Confound 
 your grandfather the protozoon. he should have 
 provided you with a little more. A shiftless, a 
 thoughtless, an immoral fellow he was. He mar- 
 ried penniless, you see, and so we must have Asso- 
 ciations for the Suppression of Vice ! 
 
 Sam. 
 
 This is all, then, that you have to tell me, Doc- 
 tor? 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 97 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Takes him by the lapel] Well, the fact is this, 
 Sam. Had you had a ready supply of cash, or 
 even a decent credit, I should have prescribed vig- 
 orous exercise in the fresh air— games of various 
 kinds, you know ;— rowing, swimming, baseball, 
 and so on; perhaps travel, study, art. But then, 
 if you had the cash, or, as I have said, even a 
 decent credit, those substitutes mightn't be neces- 
 sary; you could marry then and live repenting ever 
 afterwards. But since you have neither the cash 
 nor the credit, I am bound, as a matter of prece- 
 dent and good form, to refer you to Mr. Fiedler; 
 and should he fail, Mr. Coleman may tackle you 
 with his statistics. Anyway, don't despair ; between 
 the three of us you'll be kept pretty busy. 
 
 Sam. 
 Good afternoon, Doctor. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Good afternoon, Sam. 
 
 Exit Sam. Dr. Merril approaches the door at 
 the left, knocks on it and opens it a little. 
 
98 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 All right, Mrs. Hunch. [Enter Mrs. Hunch.] 
 I'm all ready. Where is the patient? What's the 
 trouble with her? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Oh, she's all right. I wanted to speak to you 
 about another matter, Doctor. Mr. Blake is a 
 patient of yours, isn't he? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 The fact is — Won't you sit down? [They both 
 sit down.] The fact is — Well, I just wanted to 
 ask you: is it true, as Mrs. Hunter hinted this 
 morning, that Mr. Blake is in a bad state of 
 health? — No, that wasn't quite what I meant to 
 ask you. Let me see — Well — I mean — would you 
 tell me whether he doesn't suffer from some — 
 communicable malady? 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 99 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch, you astonish me. You positively 
 astonish me ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Why? You are my family physician, can't I 
 ask you such a simple question? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch, I am absolutely shocked! 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 But why ? In Heaven's name, what's the trouble 
 with you? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 None whatever. I can only tell you that I am 
 dumbfounded— absolutely shocked and dumb- 
 founded by such an altogether unusual question! 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Unusual question ? What do you mean ? Why 
 is it an unusual question? 
 
100 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Why? — There you've got me: I don't know 
 why, Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [Rising.] I see — professional ethics! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Looking at his watch.] Yep! I suppose that's 
 what it is. A dog's life, this, Mrs. Hunch. Three 
 o'clock, and I haven't had my lunch yet. And I 
 still must make at least three calls before going 
 home. If my wife sues for a divorce one of these 
 days, she shall have me as her star witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [Contemplates him with a look of profoundest 
 disdain.] M'hm! I shall not detain you, Doctor. 
 Professional ethics ! Dr. Merril, as between an 
 old woman and a doctor, I hope you'll not con- 
 sider it a discourtesy if I tell you — damn your pro- 
 fessional ethics! [Goes through the door at the 
 left } shutting it behind her with a bang.] 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 101 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Beaten and humiliated, he looks in the direc- 
 tion of the door for some seconds.} That's a nice 
 little mess ! [He rises, approaches the door at the 
 left, hesitates for a minute, then gives up the at- 
 tempt, and moves slozviy out of the room by the % 
 rear door.] 
 
 A little later the bell rings. Mrs. Hunch crosses 
 the room, entering from the door at the left and 
 leaving by that in the rear. She returns presently 
 with Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I met Sam Higgins just now. He was dressed 
 like a dandy, with a flower in his buttonhole. [Her 
 glance takes in the flowers on the mantelpiece.] But 
 downcast — phew-ew ! He told me he had just 
 been here. What have you done to him Mrs. 
 Hunch ? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Bless the poor fellow! He seemed in excellent 
 spirits when I left him. Perhaps Dr. Merril did 
 something to him. 
 
102 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 The boy looks as if he were in love. Was Dr. 
 Merril here — to see Clara? Is she ill? She did 
 complain of a headache this morning. How is 
 she? I should like to see her. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Just a moment, Mrs. Hunter; I shall tell her 
 that you are here. [Exit.] 
 
 Airs. Hunter approaches the mantelpiece and ex- 
 amines the flowers. Enter Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 She has just fallen asleep, poor thing. I hope 
 that will relieve her, so she is in shape for tonight. 
 Shall I wake her? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Oh, no, no! Do you know, Mrs. Hunch, I 
 think there is something between your Clara and 
 that boy Sam. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 What do you mean? 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 103 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Smiling.] I believe the young people are in 
 love. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Oh, what nonsense! How could you think of 
 such a thing! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Why not? They are both young, handsome 
 and marriageable. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 You are a happy person, Mrs. Hunter. You 
 are always making fun. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 So are you, Mrs. Hunch. It was very funny the 
 way you spoke about Mr. Blake this morning. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Was it? 
 
104 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Wasn't it? Ha, ha! — That old profligate and 
 waster ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, you seem to have an old grudge 
 against Mr. Blake. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 A grudge ! Why should I have ? But when 
 his name — old cripple that he is ! — is mentioned in 
 connection with a young girl, I cannot help shud- 
 dering. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Well — affection is a very strange thing some- 
 times. What will you do? The girl is mad over 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 You mean — Clara ? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Yes, of course. 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 105 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Are you in earnest? Would you really consent 
 to such a marriage? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Well, you see, in times gone by a girl's parents 
 used to choose a husband for her. Thank the 
 Lord — those times are past. I pride myself on 
 being sufficiently advanced not to trifle with my 
 daughter's affections, and not to undertake to 
 choose a husband for her. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch, how can you think of such a thing I 
 Affection for an old, lame and diseased dog like 
 that? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 My dear, you are biased — and, I fear, a little 
 old-fashioned. Well — I believe in letting nature 
 take its own course. Everything is for the best 
 in the long run. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Are you quite sure, Mrs. Hunch, you are not in 
 
106 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 error? Do you know what I think? I think 
 the girl is merely pretending attachment to Mr. 
 Blake in order to lead you off the track. You 
 know, girls will do that sort of thing sometimes. 
 I think she is in love with that boy Sam. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Perfectly preposterous ! I hope I know my child 
 better than that! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Do you think it so utterly impossible? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Of course ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Why? I really think that Sam is as good a boy 
 as one can find. He would make an excellent hus- 
 band for Clara ! This is quite certain, the boy is 
 crazy over her. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Well — you see — he is an employee of yours, and 
 you are naturally a little partial towards him. It 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 107 
 
 is ever so nice of you, Mrs. Hunter, to take your 
 employees' affairs to heart as you do. But you 
 will grant that my daughter's interests are at least 
 as dear to me as your employees' interests are to 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I hope you are not offended. You know, Mrs. 
 Hunch, we have been friends ever since I came to 
 this city. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 Oh, no; no offense! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I thank you. Well, then, why do you think 
 that Sam wouldn't be the proper husband for 
 Clara? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, you are very kind, I'm sure, to 
 take so much interest in a fatherless girl. I under- 
 stand that Mr. Hunter has raised Sam's wages to 
 the fabulous sum of twelve dollars a week. Of 
 course, we are poor, and the girl isn't quite used 
 to luxuries. But don't you think that twelve dol- 
 
108 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 lars a week would rather make it a little hard 
 for her? Besides, the relationship which she 
 would contract, as you may know, wouldn't be 
 quite of the best kind. You know of course that 
 Sam's sister is a prostitute, and that his father 
 is a drunkard and a brute? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Oh, well, Mrs. Hunch, as an advanced woman 
 you wouldn't put Sam's relatives as against his 
 personal merits ! But regarding his earnings — 
 what if I promised you that the boy will be made 
 superintendent of the establishment? 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 That's very kind of you, Mrs. Hunter. He will 
 then probably be getting the unheard of salary of 
 twenty-five dollars a week. Really, Mrs. Hunter, 
 you speak so like a child — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 But he may be advanced still further — You 
 know, Mr. Hunter thinks the world of the boy — 
 there's no telling, he — may become a member of 
 the firm. — Of course, it must all take time — a 
 little time — 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 109 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 My dear, you are very nervous. — Look how 
 pale you are! Shall I give you a little ammonia? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 No, thanks. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [Takes Mrs. Hunter's face between her hands.} 
 My dear, you must see Dr. Merril — you must 
 promise me to see him. [Whispers in her ear, then 
 laughs and taps her on the shoulder.] Oh, you! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Very fidgety.} Well — I'll speak to Clara some 
 time tonight. At any rate, Mrs. Hunch, she 
 musn't hurry about that affair — Let her wait.— 
 You know, she may repent it bitterly afterwards — 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Oh, no! She is not in the least hurry about 
 it! Very well — you may speak to her and see 
 what you could do. 
 
110 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I shall be going, then. I shall see you tonight. 
 [Exit.] 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 [Goes to the telephone and calls up a number.] 
 Hello! Mr. Blake? I must see you particularly, 
 at once. No; not here. I shall be walking down 
 the street, meet me in your machine. You won't 
 miss me. Yes, I shall start at once. Good-bye. 
 [Hangs up the receiver, thinks for a minute, then 
 rings and call for another number.] Hello! Is 
 Mr. Fiedler in? Tell him please Mrs. Hunch is 
 at the 'phone. Mr. Fiedler? Mrs. Hunch. Mr. 
 Fiedler, will you be in between seven and eight? 
 Yes. very important. Between seven and eight, 
 then. Yes, wait, by all means. Don't disappoint 
 me now. Very well. Good-bye. [She hangs up 
 the receiver, then walks to the front of the room.] 
 Ugh ! As some philosopher has said — I'll take 
 care of my enemies, but the good Lord deliver 
 me from my friends! 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 SCENE 2. 
 An average workingman } s sittingroom-kitchen, 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 1 1 1 
 
 rather untidy , in one of the old-time tenements of 
 the downtown district. Five o'clock in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 Mr. Jim Higgins, a broken-down workingman 
 of fifty-odd, is asleep in "the" rocker. His at- 
 titude, however, is expressive of the fact that he 
 is more than merely asleep. His body sags down, 
 and his head inclines unduly to one side — the 
 muscular relaxation is great. 
 
 His son, Sam Higgins, is seated opposite him. 
 He is making repeated efforts to concentrate his 
 attention on the contents of a book in his hands, 
 but fails ; his glance wandering every few seconds 
 from the book into vacancy. He finally abandons 
 the effort, puts away the book on a shelf, produces 
 a poker and stoops to poke the fire in the stove; 
 then inspects the grate, finds the fire unsatisfactory, 
 and rises disgusted. His attention is drawn to 
 the flower in his buttonhole ; he holds forth his 
 lapel, smells the flower, and inspects himself in the 
 mirror. Evidently his appearance, too, is not to 
 his satisfaction. He turns around, gazes at his 
 father for a few seconds, then suddenly grasps his 
 hat, throws his overcoat over his arm and leaves 
 the room. 
 
 A little later there is a knock at the door, which 
 presently opens. Mrs. Hunter looks in cautiously, 
 
1 12 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 then enters. She is evidently shocked by the ap- 
 pearance of the place and hesitates, standing near 
 the door. She approaches the old man and shakes 
 him gently. His head inclines more to the side 
 from the jar } and he emits inarticulate sounds. 
 She bends over liim, and is repelled by the odor of 
 his breath. She stands over him for some time, 
 then begins to shake him; gently at first, then vig- 
 orously, then desperately. He only mutters indis- 
 tinct sounds. She gives up the attempt to arouse 
 him, straightens herself and covers her face with 
 her hands. A singular transformation takes place 
 in her appearance as she does so; the hardy-look- 
 ing little woman falls in, becomes soft and weak. 
 After a while she produces a handkerchief from 
 her handbag, dips it in water under the spigot in 
 the sink f wipes her face and fans herself with the 
 handkerchief, standing against the mirror. She 
 then adjusts the man's body in the chair in a more 
 comfortable position, and begins to busy herself 
 about the room. She shakes up the fire in the 
 stove and adds coal; produces a broom from some- 
 where and sweeps the room; then wipes the table 
 and mantelpiece with a wet rag. She goes about 
 her work with a feverish haste } stopping once in 
 a while to listen at the door. The work done, she 
 sits down for a minute , in doubt what to do next. 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 113 
 
 She then rises with a start } fills a glass with water 
 from the spigot, approaches the man and sprinkles 
 some water into his face with her hand. The 
 man shudders, opens his eyes, and looks bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Handing him the glass.] Here, Mr. Higgins, 
 take a few draughts ; that will refresh you. 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 [Takes the glass with a trembling hand, drinks, 
 returns it and rubs his eyes.] Oh-h ! Mrs. Hunter ! 
 B-beg your pardon, ma'am ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Pulling him up by his coat-shoulder.] Come! 
 Get up! Quickly, Mr. Higgins! 
 
 Mr. Higgins rises heavily, wabbles a second, and 
 remains erect. 
 
 Higgins. 
 I beg your-r pardon, Mrs. Hunter. 
 
114 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 That's all right. Come here — hurry! Mr. Hun- 
 ter and Mr. Fiedler are coming here directly. 
 [She leads him to the sink, turns on the water, and 
 gets hold of the back of his neck.} Here, put your 
 head under the spigot. [He does so.] Rub your 
 face with your hands. That's right. [She hands 
 him a towel; he wipes himself.] Now go comb 
 your hair. [He goes to the mirror and combs 
 his hair.] 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, I beg your pardon, ma'am ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 You have done so already. Now, come here, 
 old man, I want to talk to you. Sit down. I 
 think I have some good news for you. It is pos- 
 sible that we may locate your girl. [Starts to her 
 feet suddenly.] I hear them coming — [She runs 
 out of the room. Behind the door a lively dis- 
 cussion is heard to ensue, which lasts for a minute 
 or two.] 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hunter, Fiedler, Mr. Hunter and 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 115 
 
 Dr. Merril. Hunter and Fiedler are each carry- 
 ing a large basket. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [On entering.} I cannot understand it! It is 
 utterly beyond my comprehension ! A deliberate, 
 a — [Puts the basket down on the floor.} 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Oh, please, Mr. Fiedler — for my sake ! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 The most singular caprice ! Why, it's — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Mr. Fiedler, stop these pretensions, remember — 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [With all the emphasis of which his respecta- 
 bility is capable.} My dear sir, I maintain that 
 they are not pretensions ! I insist that it amounts 
 to wanton deception! To deliberate prevarica- 
 tion ! 
 
116 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Continuing.] — Remember that he who has not 
 sinned could never hope to be a saint. Start with 
 prevaricating, it is as good as anything else. See 
 Hunter, he doesn't object to prevarication: for 
 it is written : "Therefore shall a man leave his 
 father and his mother and shall cleave unto his 
 wife." 
 
 Fiedler waves the whole matter away with a 
 gesture of his arm, indicative of a willingness to 
 acquiesce to any lie, so he would he spared the 
 torrent of Dr. Merril' s blasphemy. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Putting down the basket on the table.] Some 
 nice things to eat, Mr. Higgins. 
 
 HlGGINS. 
 
 [Moodily.] Thanks, Mr. Hunter. Thanks. I 
 w-wish you hadn't taken the trouble. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 No trouble at all, Mr. Higgins; you are wel- 
 come. 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 1 1 7 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 You've been drinking again, Mr. Higgins — 
 
 Higgins. 
 I have, Doctor; it's no use lyin'; I have. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Why — Mr. Higgins — don't you know that 
 drinking is a ruinous habit to indulge in? — Ruin- 
 ous to the mind as well as to the body? 
 
 Higgins. 
 Yes, sir; I know it all right. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 You do! Then why do you indulge in it? 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 Well, y'see, it's jes' this : I ain't got nothin' as 
 could be made much worser than what it is. So 
 y'see, it can't do me no harm. 
 
1 1 8 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 Have you no soul? 
 
 Higgins. ,, 
 Yes, sir; I believe I have. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 And you are bent on ruining it? 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 Well — I don't see as that could harm me any. 
 It's a troublesome soul I've got, Mr. Fiedler. It's 
 a soul that ain't got no hopes ; and such a one, the 
 sooner it's ruined the better for all concerned. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Do you consider your conduct as a good ex- 
 ample for your boy Sam ? 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 Yes, sir. Let him see for hisself what a indi- 
 vidual is like as ain't got nothin' from life to ex- 
 pec'. 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 119 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [To himself.] Nothing from life to expect! 
 
 HlGGINS. 
 
 No, sir; nothin' ! If you know of anything tell 
 me, I'll be glad to know it ! 
 
 Hunter. 
 Your boy Sam — 
 
 HlGGINS. 
 
 Yes, sir, Mr. Hunter, I know — you've raised his 
 wages; and we are ever so grateful to you. And 
 may be one day he'll get to be as high as foreman, 
 and be earnin' fifteen dollars a week. And may 
 be he'll marry, and get a real good, honest woman, 
 who won't think of nothin' but be scrubbin' floors, 
 and do the washin' and cookin' and tendin' the 
 children. And then she'll be crippled up like my 
 wife was, at the age of thirty; and she'll be dead, 
 like her, at forty; and Sam will get as much out 
 of life as I've got. 
 
 Fiedler. 
 That's the trouble with you, Higgins, you are a 
 
120 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 complete materialist, what we call. You have 
 n the darkest and dryest colors. In fact, you are 
 no ideals. That's the reason you see everything 
 a perfect pessimist. Can't you get yourself to 
 change your viewpoint? Can't you imagine that 
 Sam will grow up to be a good and a strong man, 
 who will push his way into the world, who will — 
 
 HlGGINS. 
 
 Yes, sir, I cert'ny can — when I've had a couple 
 of good stiff drinks; everythin' looks bright and 
 shiny, then. 
 
 Fiedler waves his hand to Hunter, as who should 
 say: "Itfs no use arguing with that man; he is 
 irredeemable." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 But your girl Lizzie, Mr. Higgins ! Think how 
 happy you would be if your girl came back to 
 you ! 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 Why'd I be happy, Mrs. Hunter? D'you think 
 Mr. Hunter'd take her back in the cannery? 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 121 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Mr. Higgins, I assure you that the day she came 
 back she would have the best woman's position in 
 the establishment. 
 
 Higgins. 
 Would she though ? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [With almost hysterical eagerness.] You have 
 my word for it, Mr. Higgins !— Oh, I know what 
 you mean — of course. But don't let that worry 
 you. I wouldn't hesitate to discharge on the in- 
 stant any employee who would dare so much as 
 hint at her previous condition. I would — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 What are you talking about, Hunter ? Are you 
 delirious ? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [As if suddenly awakened } stares blankly for a 
 moment; then rises and approaches Dr. Merril.] 
 
122 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 [4 side.] What's the trouble with you? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Merril — I'm afraid I'm ill. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Wouldn't it make you happy to see your daugh- 
 ter [To her husband.] Come here, dear. 
 [Hunter takes his place again.] Wouldn't it make 
 you happy, Mr. Higgins, to see your daughter 
 once more an honest woman, making her living by 
 honest toil ? 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 N-no, Mrs. Hunter, it's no use lyin', I m-must 
 say it won't. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Surprised.] It wouldn't! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [Rises in intense indignation. To Hunter and 
 Dr. Merril.] It wouldn't. Do you hear that? 
 It wouldn't! Talk to those people about the 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 123 
 
 higher sentiments ! They are steeped to the points 
 of their hair in an atmosphere of sordid mate- 
 rialism ! \With sincere sarcasm^ I suppose, Dr. 
 Merril, you rejoice exceedingly over this picture! 
 You always insist on the body, body, and body! 
 Well, here's your body — without a trace of the 
 spiritual, the ideal! Rejoice over your body, Doc- 
 tor! Just hear him, he says it wouldn't! It 
 wouldn't ! 
 
 HlGGINS. 
 
 No, Mr. Fiedler, I say it again, it wouldn't ! 
 Because I seen her at that honest toil ten year ago, 
 and I seen her at it twenty year ago, ever since 
 she was that big, and I can tell you it didn't make 
 me happy when I seen her at it. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 {Deeply wounded.] Mr. Higgins, I know the 
 work in the cannery isn't light. But if you will 
 tell me — I know you are an honest man — if you 
 will tell me that the conditions in my establishment 
 have not been absolutely better than in any other 
 cannery in the State, I declare right here, in the 
 presence of my wife and friends, that I am willing 
 to make full amends ! 
 
124 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 No, Mr. Hunter, it ain't that. You done your 
 best. Everybody knows it; leastwise I know it. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Continuing.] Mr. Fiedler, Dr. Merril, she — 
 [Pointing to his wife.] she knows it: I am not 
 realizing 3 per cent, on my investment, while other 
 canners are making as much as 30 and 40 per 
 cent ; and my methods are as modern as any. I am 
 paying to each of my employees on the average one 
 dollar a week more than is paid in any other can- 
 nery in the State. If I withheld this one dollar, 
 it would mean an additional $500 a week for me — 
 $26,000 a year! I am moderate in my habits: I 
 do not ride automobiles, I have no country resi- 
 dence, and my wife does not wear any jewels. The 
 only luxury which I allow myself is my regular 
 contribution to the Society for the Suppression of 
 Vice, and an occasional few dollars to the chari- 
 ties. These items of my expenditures I have not 
 the heart to cut out, at a time that I see the ter- 
 rors of drunkenness and immorality, so to say, in 
 my own home — my own canning establishment. 
 The girls run off and become prostitutes, the men 
 and boys take to drinking. 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 125 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Mr. Hunter, your conscience may rest at ease. 
 You are doing what you can, and more than you 
 can. While other men are spending their incomes 
 on senseless luxuries, you have been devoting yours 
 to the raising of the standard of morality in our 
 community by an effort to suppress the temptations 
 which everywhere lure the working girls and the 
 working men from their homes — the houses of ill- 
 fame, the dancing halls, the saloons and so forth. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Tell me, Mr. Higgins, is it your opinion that 
 your girl ran off because she was allured by those 
 temptations? By dancing halls, the cafes, the 
 houses of ill- fame, and so on? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 Of course! What then? 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 No, Mr. Fiedler, My girl ain't left her home 
 on acount of them dancin' halls, nor on account of 
 no houses of ill-fame. If the truth must be said 
 she ain't left no home neither. People as ain't 
 
126 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 lived in here might call it a home; but you take 
 it from me, it ain't ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 You will acknowledge, Mr. Higgins, that the 
 poorest home is incomparably better — more de- 
 cent — than — than a house of ill-fame. 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 How you know it's better if you ain't tried it? 
 Decen' ! Well. I don't see nothin' decen' about 
 livin' in a stuffy hole ! And I don't see nothin' 
 decen' about workin' your body away for live dol- 
 lars a week neither. It's true, Mr. Hunter, you 
 been payin' my girl a dollar a week more than she 
 could'a'got anywhere, but that ain't done her no 
 good : she ain't had nothin' decen' to wear, nothin'. 
 decen' to see. nothin' decen' to live in, nothin' de- 
 cen' to live for! Nothin' but hard work all day, 
 a stuffy hole to sleep in at night, and a sermon on 
 Sunday! And the worst of it — she ain't had no 
 hope of ever bein' able to crawl out of this here, 
 what you call, decen' existence. No, Mr. Fiedler, 
 I don't care howsoever indecen' a life she might 
 be leadin' now, but it can't — can't be any more in- 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 127 
 
 decen' than the life she'd led when she was what 
 you might call good! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 But, Mr. Higgins. have you ever thought of the 
 terrible diseases from which women who lead a 
 dishonorable life suffer, and of the terrible deaths 
 they die? 
 
 Higgins. 
 
 [Rises, much excited.] Yes, Mrs. Hunter, 1 
 know it ! I ain't as foolish as all that ! And there's 
 something more that I know. My wife 'd'been 
 what you call a good and honest woman. And I 
 can tell you, there ain't no more terrible diseases 
 than what she suffered — leastwise I can't imagine 
 of none! She'd had rheumatism, and she'd had 
 consumption, and she'd had heart disease, and she 
 suffered tortures from woman's troubles, that she 
 got from gettin' up too soon and goin' about her 
 work, after she give birth to my boy Sam. And 
 the death she died— nobody couldnVdied a more 
 terrible death — in a pool of blood, like a slaugh- 
 tered animal! D'you know what my oldest girl 
 died from? The doctor said her mother's milk 
 must'a'been poisoned from care and worry. And 
 
128 The Quandary. Act II. 
 
 another boy died at the age of three — bad feedin', 
 the doctor said. Them's what you might call hon- 
 orable diseases and honorable deaths! I'd have 
 to be pretty well soused, Mrs. Hunter, to think so ! 
 No, Mr. Hunter, better leave my girl alone, wher- 
 ever she might be. I don't care how indencen' and 
 dishonorable a life she might be leadin', she can't 
 — she can't! — be any worser off than was her 
 mother — and sister — and baby brother ! — Please — 
 don't ! — Leave her alone ! — Poor girl of mine ! — 
 [His voice quavers; he covers his face with his 
 hands and slowly walks out into the ether room, on 
 the left.] 
 
 Mr. Fiedler, who has risen, remains standing 
 with his face to the wall. He does something to his 
 face with his handkerchief f pretending to have sud- 
 denly contracted a severe ccriza. Dr. Merril, at 
 the other end of the room, stands with his arms 
 folded, his gaze assiduously contemplating some 
 point on the floor. Hunter, in the centre of the 
 room, looks from Dr. Merril to Fiedler, as if he 
 expected something from them. Mrs. Hunter, 
 with her hands on her temples, sits motionless in 
 the rocker. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [In a husky voice, and with very slow accent, to 
 
Act II. The Quandary. 129 
 
 her husband.] Do you blame her? [She rises, 
 approaches her husband and hides her face on his 
 breast. ] 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [JVith deep emotion.} No, no, my poor little 
 bird! — Far be it from me! — But — but — There is 
 something wrong in all that! [In a louder voice.} 
 Something I hadn't thought of before ! Some- 
 thing — let me see — I must think! — What it is? 
 — What can it be — 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [With profound sincerity.] Something; radi- 
 cally wrong ! It appears to me — It seems to me — 
 it looks as if — [He interrupts himself by waving 
 his hand in disgust.] 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 I'll tell you what, gentlemen: We have been 
 simply making asses of ourselves ! [He kicks the 
 basket on the floor with his foot with all hfc 
 might.] 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
130 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 ACT 3. 
 
 A room in Mr. Hunter's residence. Eight 
 o' clock in the evening. 
 
 A neatly , comfortably and not over -luxuriously 
 furnished room. A wide portal in the rear hung with 
 a heavy curtain, leads into the parlor adjoining, 
 whence sounds of music are faintly audible during 
 the act. Whenever the two halves of the curtain 
 are separated by someone's entrance or exit, a 
 glimpse is caught of a brightly lighted room, and 
 the figures of men and women passing in a dance ; 
 the music is then heard louder, mingled with sounds 
 of conversation and laughter. On the left is a door 
 leading to the other apartments, and on the right 
 one which communicates with the entrance of the 
 house. 
 
 Mr. Hunter is pacing the room in silence. He 
 looks careworn. Once in a while he stops to listen 
 to the sounds coming from the adjoining room. 
 He fumbles listlessly with objects; finds himself 
 staring into space; tries to rouse himself ; loses pa- 
 tience with himself ; and finally remains motionless, 
 supporting himself against a chair in the centre of 
 the room. 
 
Act III The Quandary. 131 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hunter. She is noticeably pale. 
 Her movements are strangely abrupt, spasmodic; 
 evidently brought about by an effort to conquer an 
 overpowering hesitancy, an indecision. On seeing 
 her husband she stops, looks toward him search- 
 ingly, then goes to him and puts her hand upon his 
 shoulder. He starts, turns towards her, and his 
 face is forced into a smile. 
 
 Hunter. 
 Oh, it is you ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 What is it, dear? 
 
 Hunter. 
 Nothing ; nothing in particular. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I have seen you often like that. But you were 
 in a cheerful mood this morning. Was it — 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 My dear, how pale you are! My poor little 
 bird ! Are you not feeling well ? 
 
132 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Turns away her face.] No, no! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [ Tries to turn her face towards him with his 
 hands, but she resists.] Mabel — What is it? You 
 are not angry? — Why don't you speak? [She 
 goes towards the curtain in the rear; he follows her 
 and takes her by the hand.] Come here, dear, I 
 want to speak to you. 
 
 Enter Dr. Merril. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Quickly retreating.] Pardon me. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Dr. Merril — wait. — Stay here. — I want you. 
 Listen, Merril, I have decided — I have made up 
 my mind to — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 You are mad! [Goes towards the rear.] 
 
Act III The Quandary. 133 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Getting hold of him.] No, you can't go — you 
 must stay. I am quite resolved. — I cannot bear 
 the strain of it any longer ! — 
 
 Enter Coleman. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 [After the usual "good evening/'] I did a 
 couple of hours' work this afternoon on our study 
 of the relation of drunkenness and prostitution 
 to the previous condition of the subjects. The 
 deeper I get into the facts the more amazing and 
 incongruous do they seem. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 What do you mean? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 I find, for instance, *hat the previous occupation 
 of the man or the woman determines in a very large 
 percentage of cases their subsequent moral status. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Well — there doesn't seem to be anything very 
 amazing in that. 
 
134 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 No; not if you considered certain groups of oc- 
 cupations by themselves. For instance, employ- 
 ment in drug manufacturies, chemical works, can- 
 ning establishments, and so forth. In these, it 
 might be reasoned, that the action of certain chemi- 
 cals used in the processes of manufacture, may have 
 a certain subtle influence upon the physique of the 
 employees, that would result in the throwing over 
 of their moral balance. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Ah, I see, to be sure. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 But the worst of it is this, that a comparison of 
 that class of occupations with a class of quite a 
 different character, shows that their influence on 
 the morality of those who engage in them is prac- 
 tically the same. For instance, work in depart- 
 ment stores, hotels, laundries and so forth. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 A deeper study of the several occupations may 
 perhaps reveal a something akin to them all — 
 
Act III The Quandary. 135 
 
 some subtle force still undiscovered — an electric 
 or electro-magnetic influence of the malicious ani- 
 mal variety. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 The thing is confusing in the extreme. Another 
 obvious incongruity is this, that the lower the 
 wages and the worse the living conditions, the 
 greater the percentage of drunkenness and prosti- 
 kition. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Impossible ! 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 It is a fact. My statistics prove it clearly, much 
 as it is impossible to understand. It would seem 
 obvious enough, that the less money a man has to 
 spend on drink, the less would he be apt to drink ; 
 and yet, quite the contrary is the result. The best 
 mechanics drink very little. The same is true as 
 regards those women. It would seem that the 
 greater the temptations to which a woman is ex- 
 posed, the more would she be apt to succumb. The 
 facts indicate quite the opposite. The hardest- 
 worked and worst-paid women become prostitutes, 
 
136 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 while among those engaged in the more remunera- 
 tive occupations, the percentage of prostitution is 
 comparatively small. Isn't it amazing? What 
 do you think? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 What do I think? I should say that thinking 
 had very little to do with the question. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 I am absolutely confounded ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Of that, in any event, I am not at all surprised. 
 Those problems in transcendental metaphysics are 
 at times very confusing. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 However, I think I have struck upon a clue that 
 may lead to the final establishment of the cause 
 of prostitution. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 You have? What is it? 
 
Act III The Quandary. 137 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 White slavery. A girl is cunningly abducted 
 from her home into a house of ill fame, and kept 
 there by force. Here is a cause of prostitution 
 that lends itself to everybody's understanding. 
 If we can succeed in crystallizing our statistics 
 around this point — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 You say crystallizing our statistics? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Yes. I say, if we could succeed in crystallizing 
 our statistics around this point, then the cause of 
 prostitution becomes clearly established. Of course, 
 it remains to be shown that cases which are ap- 
 parently widely different in their merits, are. in 
 reality of the same nature, only of varying de- 
 grees. But this latter feature is for the expert 
 statistician a comparatively trivial task to accom- 
 plish. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 I have no doubt. 
 
138 i he Quandary. Act III 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Who has herself been watching keenly the con- 
 versation, and compelling her husband to do the 
 same.] Mr. Coleman, under what caption would 
 you place a case of the following nature : A certain 
 man is suffering from a complication of contagious 
 diseases. He is old and crippled. But he is rich. 
 That man, with the assistance of an avaricious old 
 woman, compels a young and innocent girl to be- 
 come the subject for the gratification of his lust. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 A plain case of white slavery ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 And what is the law in such cases? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 The law is very severe in such cases : heavy fines, 
 and long terms of imprisonment. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 But the old woman is the girl's mother! 
 
Act III The Quandary. 139 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 That doesn't make the case any milder. If any- 
 thing it rather aggravates the extent of the crime. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 But the girl is poor and weak. She was brought 
 up in a manner that has incapacitated her for work. 
 She has no father. She is a burden on her mother. 
 Doesn't the law in such cases allow some extenu- 
 ation for the mother who sells her daughter into 
 prostitution ? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Not the least. How can you think of such a 
 thing, Mrs. Hunter ! For a mother to sell her 
 own daughter into white slavery ! It is unheard 
 of ! It is — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Would it make any difference if the man, pre- 
 vious to the commission of the criminal act, took 
 a ride down town, paid five dollars to the clerk of 
 the Court and procured a license? 
 
140 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 [Looks from Dr. Merril to Hunter, as if in 
 doubt what to reply to such an altogether prepos- 
 terous query.] Mrs. Hunter — you astonish me! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Why, Mr. Coleman? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 You simply astonish me ! A license for commit- 
 ting violence upon a person ! A license for white 
 slavery! Who ever heard of such a thing? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 I mean a marriage license. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 A marriage license ! Again you astonish me ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Does that make any difference? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 A marriage license! Why, you mean that the 
 
Act III The Quandary. 141 
 
 man simply married the girl — has consummated 
 the sacred tie of wedlock, sanctioned by the ma- 
 jesty of the law! Mrs. Hunter, you astonish me! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Oh, you quibblers! The payment of five dol- 
 lars and the signature of a seventh-rate ward poli- 
 tician who has got a job as clerk of the court, be- 
 comes by virtue of some black magic the majesty 
 of the law; and that mock majesty gives permis- 
 sion to an old profligate to make a young and de- 
 fenseless girl the subject of his vile lust, for life, 
 and in full view of an unblushing world ! 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 But you spoke of coercion — where is the coercion 
 here? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I have told you. The girl is young and weak 
 and poor — she cannot help herself. She was 
 brought up by her mother to be a doll, a plaything, 
 a house-ornament. She is an impersonation of 
 your principle that woman was made for the home. 
 Left to shift for herself, she would perish like 
 
142 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 a housefly in the winter. She has no means of 
 aggression or defense. Does that give the right 
 to any old hag who might happen to be her mother 
 to commit violence upon her person by compelling 
 her to choose between the alternatives of either 
 answering "Yes" to the question of "Do you want 
 this man for a husband" or of starving? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 The girl is of age? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 No, she is a child! She is twenty-one. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Oh. well, then she is — legally — of age. You 
 know the law is founded on statistics, which prove 
 conclusively — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Oh, your statistics again! [To Dr. Merril.] 
 There ought to be some name for people who are 
 hysterical over statistics. 
 
Act III The Quandary. 143 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 There are several— A. B., Ph. D., L. L. D., per- 
 haps M. D., and of late D. D. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 The case in question is extremely intricate. You 
 said something, for instance, about a complication 
 of diseases from which the man was suffering. But 
 you know, that is sometimes a difficult point to 
 establish. It would require expert testimony — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 There is expert testimony ! 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 You mean to say that there is a reputable phy- 
 sician who will state that — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Yes, there is ; he will state — Dr. Merril ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 What?! What do you mean? 
 
144 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 < 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Mr. Blake has been a patient of yours? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Defiantly.] Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 He surely must have consulted you about the 
 question of his marriage? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Mrs. Hunter! — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Ah ! He has ! Then you know that he is about 
 to ruin a defenseless girl! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Mrs. Hunter! — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter what? 
 
Act III The Quandary. 145 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 You astonish me ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I do, do I? I astonish you! Mr. Coleman 
 started out the same way. And you couldn't think 
 of anything more clever ! This is how much origi- 
 nality those men have when put to the test. Your 
 long-tailed ancestor could have done as well, Dr. 
 Merril. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 You positively^ 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Oh, stop that! It is disgusting! Very well, I 
 astonish you and shock you and everything else! 
 Why do you dodge a plain question in this cow- 
 ardly fashion? A man whom you know to be 
 suffering from a horrible malady is about to in- 
 flict it upon an innocent girl. Why don't you 
 speak? Have you nothing to say? 
 
146 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [With an effort to pronounce the words dryly.] 
 No, I have nothing to say. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 You have a great deal to say about compara- 
 tively trivial matters — whenever your own skin 
 is not involved. And your manner is sometimes 
 even more eloquent than your speech. I noticed 
 you were very thoughtful and sympathetic this 
 afternoon, when Mr. Higgins recited about the 
 terrible diseases from which the unfortunates who 
 are driven to toil like oxen for bread, suffer and 
 die from. — But I suppose your conscience is at 
 peace — with the aid of Mr. Fiedler's ready unc- 
 tion. You do your share of the work of reducing 
 the horrors of the social evil by giving your free 
 service to the deserving cases on the list of the 
 Society for the Suppression of Vice. But, of 
 course, it wouldn't be quite right to expect you to 
 rescue a human being from the horrors of disease 
 at the cost of a bit of your own skin. You might 
 be suspected then of an ulterior motive — a wish to 
 save yourself the trouble of subsequent treatment. 
 
Act III The Quandary. 147 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, do you know that there is such 
 a thing as professional ethics? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Yes, I know. — Professional ethics! It is to 
 laugh! — Those people speak of ethics! — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, permit me — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Continuing.] And this aggregation of hypo- 
 crisy and cowardice has undertaken the task of 
 abolishing the social evil! Oh, it is revolting! 
 
 [Exit through the door on the left.} 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [To Dr. Merril.'] Does Mr. Blake really intend 
 to marry Miss Hunch? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Nonsense ! The most distant possibility ! 
 
148 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 I'll tell you what it is. Mrs. Hunter must have 
 been reading those preposterous books which medi- 
 cal quacks send out, telling you how to make an 
 easy diagnosis of the most complicated diseases. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [With an effort to pronounce the words calmly.] 
 I suppose she must have. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 Ah, well! [Exit to the parlor.] 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 And yet — Mrs. Hunter seems to speak with 
 such an air of certainty about that matter — 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 She is very nervous. It is my fault, Merril. 
 But there shall be an end to it — I shall have it out, 
 at all costs. She must know everything ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Why — did she hint at anything in that connec- 
 tion? 
 
Act III The Quandary. 149 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Oh, no! If you only knew, Merril, how kind 
 and considerate she is ! And yet — I am quite cer- 
 tain that she suspects — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 Yes, your face betrays much. 
 
 Hunter. 
 Merril, there is something I haven't told you. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 What? 
 
 Hunter. 
 I am afraid — I am certain — I'm not quite well. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Nonsense. It's all here. [Points to Hunter's 
 forehead.] 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 This is the worst of it. How will you explain 
 it? Somehow — [He pauses.] I cannot dissociate 
 
150 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 — [He stops abruptly, finishing the sentence with a 
 wave of his hand.] 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 Hunter. 
 I cannot dissociate in my mind my wife from — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 [With genuine concern.'] What? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 I've told you I must be ill. That feeling came 
 over me the first moment I saw my wife in that 
 little Western town. It has obsessed me and tor- 
 mented me all these months. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Perhaps a certain resemblance — 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Yes, a certain suggestion in her expression, par- 
 ticularly when she is absorbed. Merril, it is a 
 
Act III The Quandary. 151 
 
 shameful confession to make, but as a physician 
 you will understand me and not judge me harshly. 
 It was this faint resemblance which was the real 
 cause of my proposing to her. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 [Thoughtfully.'] I see. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Merril, can you quite appreciate the extent of 
 the wrong I am committing against her? I feel 
 that she understands my feeling, much as she tries 
 to conceal the fact. 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Then why don't you make a clean breast of it 
 and be done with it? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 I was on the point of doing it a hundred times, 
 but — if you only knew how much harder it is to 
 say it to her than it is to you ! Will she understand 
 it — will she forgive me? And if she will forgive, 
 will she ever become reconciled to it and forget? 
 And even if she will forgive and forget — Merril, 
 
152 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 the world, even though it forgives those things, 
 never forgets ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 That is so. Only true masters can rise to the 
 height of placing their own judgment of themselves 
 above that of the world. Neither I nor you have 
 risen to that height. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [In a low voice.} Yes, yes — the great masters 
 " — Where — where are they? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 We are doomed by a defective education to roll 
 along in the common groove — to think as others 
 think, to do as others do, to be what others are. 
 [With much bitterness.] We deceive ourselves 
 into thinking that we are possessed of some indi- 
 viduality. The fallacy of it ! The only reason 
 why we move along at all is because we are im- 
 pelled by the pressure of our co-molecules in the 
 direction of the common resultant! 
 
 Hunter. 
 In the direction of the common resultant, on the 
 
Act III The Quandary. 153 
 
 way to complete equilibrium — the true death. And 
 is this all? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 This is the prospect. Hunter, do you know 
 what would happen to our globe if a single mole- 
 cule were to rebel and cease its rotatory motion in 
 the line of the common resultant? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 What? 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 That molecule would plow up our entire mud- 
 ball, perhaps raise it to an incandescent heat. But 
 in order to accomplish that feat it would have to 
 be possessed of all the powers of Chaos, of hell. 
 I tell you, Hunter, if our messiah will ever come, 
 he must come from hell, armed with all the chaotic 
 powers of hell! Such a messiah may succeed in 
 prodding us out of the groove of the common re- 
 sultant ! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [With profound emotion.] Oh, but will he 
 ever come! 
 
154 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Yes, the moment we are ready for his reception; 
 when we shall have reached that state of equili- 
 brium when we have no more strength to keep him 
 out. It is the law — 
 
 Enter Coleman and Sam from the parlor. 
 
 Sam. 
 Good evening, Mr. Hunter. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Sam — good evening. Oh — here. I have nearly 
 forgotten. [Produces a bill book from his breast 
 pocket, takes some paper money from it and hands 
 it to Sam! Mrs. Hunter has asked me to give it to 
 you — her Christmas present. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Taking the money rather indifferently.} Thank 
 you, Mr. Hunter. 
 
 A sudden uproar of loud conversation and 
 laughter reaches them from the parlor. 
 
Act III The Quandary. 155 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 What's that? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 The young people must be enjoying themselves. 
 
 Enter from the parlor Clara, her mother, Blake 
 and Fiedler, the last three in glowing spirits. Some- 
 one from the parlor throws after them a hand- 
 ful of confetti. There is a general interchange of 
 "Good evening" Enter Mrs. Hunter from the 
 room on the left. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [On entering.] What's that? 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [To the guests.] Why so late? 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 [In high spirits, shaking Hunter's hand.] Duty 
 before pleasure, Mr. Hunter; the duty of the pul- 
 pit, you know. These people have just called on 
 me to tie for them the knot of wedlock. [ To the 
 
156 The Quandary. x\ct III 
 
 company at large.} Permit me to introduce to 
 you — Mr. and Mrs. Blake. 
 
 There is a sudden hush. Dr. Merril retreats a 
 few steps, almost staggering. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 [Places the paper money , which he has been hold- 
 ing in his hand on a chair nearest to Mrs. Hunter.] 
 Here's your money, Mrs. Hunter; I don't want 
 it — I don't want any more presents. I thank you 
 for having raised my wages, Mr. Hunter — but 
 you said it was a Christmas present, and I don't 
 want any presents. I thank you for the free ad- 
 vice you gave me this afternoon, Dr. Merril, I'm 
 sorry I can't make any use of it. Those presents 
 in the cannery business and in the Society for the 
 Suppression of Vice don't amount to much in 
 the long run, and they make one feel that he is 
 indebted all the time. I know you'll think it very, 
 wicked of me, Mr. Fiedler, to talk that way, but 
 I've decided to cut loose from that sort of thing. 
 It looks to me like the whole thing is a humbug, 
 Mr. Fiedler. I wish you a merry Christmas, Mrs. 
 Blake. Good night. [Goes toward the door on 
 the right.] 
 
Act III The Quandary. 157 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Getting hold of his arm.] Wait — what's the 
 trouble with you — where are you going? 
 
 Sam. 
 
 I'm going to where I can get something more 
 decent to drink than your red lemonade, and then 
 — to see the ladies. I've come to the conclusion 
 that it isn't worth one's while to be good. [Rushes 
 out of door.] 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Running after him,] Wait — Sam — wait! Get 
 hold of him, somebody! Sam! — [Exit.] 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 Well, I declare ! That's what comes of allow- 
 ing them too many familiarities ! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Now, then! What do you think of that? The 
 boy must be drunk! The influence of heredity, 
 Doctor, the influence of heredity! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hunter } out of breath, 
 
158 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Gone ! He's gone ! 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 That's what it is — the influence of heredity! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 That man talks of the influence of heredity! — 
 That dog! 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Trembling with suppressed rage.] D — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 A fine match, this is you've got for your daugh- 
 ter, Mrs. Hunch ! A rich man, a respectable citi- 
 zen of the community, a prominent member in the 
 movement for the uplift of the standard of morals. 
 Strong on the suppression of houses of ill fame and 
 the saloons ! Has no faith in the good old maxim 
 that competition is the life of trade; no! not when 
 a reputable hotel business is at stake ! 
 
Act III The Quandary. 159 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 What then should I have done with her? Sent 
 her to work in the cannery perhaps ? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 It were better. From the cannery there is still 
 an escape into a house of ill fame; as it is, she will 
 be unfitted even for that. 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 The woman is mad! By God, if you say an- 
 other word I'll — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Ha, ha ! Just listen to him — he is threatening 
 me! 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 [To Clara and her mother.] Come, let's go! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 Too late, Mr. Blake ! 
 
160 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 What in the — What do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Mrs. Hunch, just a minute, before you go. You'll 
 be glad to learn, I'm sure, that no resident of the 
 houses of ill fame controlled some years ago in 
 the city of Chicago by your new son-in-law, would 
 consent to have any relations with him, for fear 
 of contracting the diseases for which he was fa- 
 mous. It was very charitable of you, Mrs. Hunch, 
 to have accommodated him with your daughter! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 Mrs. Hunter! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Oh, Mr. Fiedler — pardon me. Permit me to 
 congratulate you. You have helped to consum- 
 mate a tie which is bound to reflect credit on your 
 cause of morality. You have helped to lay the 
 foundations of a home ! A home, mind you, not 
 a house of ill fame — a Christian home ! 
 
 Clara faints away in a chair. Her mother and 
 
Act III The Quandary. 161 
 
 Mr. Blake arc trying to revive her. Dr. Merril 
 approaches her and feels her pulse. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 That's very kind of you. Dr. Merril ! 
 
 Dr. Merril takes a few rapid strides backward, 
 as if struck by a bullet. 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, I am bound to say — I feel it my 
 duty to tell you — that it is wrong to make deduc- 
 tions of this kind from something that probably 
 amounts to no more than ordinary hearsay ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 You mean regarding the condition of this gen- 
 tleman? Your statistical sense will be gratified 
 then to be informed that I knew personally the 
 women in Chicago who were unfitted for im- 
 moral purposes by disease — ruined for good — by 
 this champion of morality. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 You knew them ! - 
 
162 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 She is mad! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I am mad, am I ? Do you remember that night 
 in midwinter when you had me turned out into the 
 street without my coat, because I wouldn't — Well, 
 I shall spare you the rest ! I can hardly contain 
 myself for joy when I think of that. I must have 
 deprived a hundred doctors of their bread that 
 night. By morning there wasn't a woman in the 
 segregated district who wasn't informed of this 
 gentleman's condition and on guard against him. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Remains dumbstruck for a minute, then with 
 sudden realization.] You ! What are you saying? 
 — Mabel — you ! [Steps back in horror and covers 
 his face with his hands.] 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Oh don't be horrified, Mr. Hunter. The ma- 
 jesty of the law is all on your side. I have con- 
 cealed from you my past, therefore your marriage 
 
Act III The Quandary. 163 
 
 is null and void ab initio. I believe this is what 
 they call it. Am I right, Mr. Coleman? 
 
 Mr. Coleman. 
 Perfectly correct; null and void ab initio. 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Quite wild with emotion.'] But why have you 
 concealed it !— Why have you I What have I ever 
 done to you — what have I ever done to anybody 
 to deserve this punishment? Oh — {Again covers 
 his face with his hands, ,] 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Sh-sh! Not so loud! You will disturb them 
 [Points to the curtain in the rear.] You ask me 
 why have I concealed my past? Well— you have 
 never told me of your past. Surely, every man, no 
 matter how good, has something behind him at the 
 age of forty that he might tell to his disadvantage 
 if he cared to. And yet, your position was a far 
 more advantageous one than mine. How little,, 
 after all. you might have lost by presenting the 
 world with a true biography of yourself ! Perhaps a 
 directorate in the Association for the Suooression 
 
164 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 of Vice; perhaps the good opinion of some scores 
 of hypocrites, the respect of some dozens of fools, 
 and the admiration of a few professional moralists. 
 You would have still retained the respect of the le- 
 gions of cowards, and the unchanged opinion of the 
 few brave and sensible and truly charitable people. 
 You could still obtain a comfortable livelihood; 
 and in the end, the world, even though it might 
 not forget, would surely forgive. Not so with 
 me — a woman — whose transgression the world 
 neither forgives nor forgets; before whose least 
 misstep the bravest, the wisest and the most chari- 
 table join with the hordes of cowards and hypo- 
 crites and fools in the virtuous attempt of tramp- 
 ling her down in the mud! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Still quite zvild.] Then you should have kept 
 your secret ! Who ever asked you to speak ! For 
 your own sake, if not for mine, you should have 
 never spoken ! — You should have — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 What fools those angels are ! Mr. Hunter, you 
 have lived your life in a little heaven, and your 
 experiences are those which may be gathered from 
 
Act III The Quandary. 165 
 
 milk and honey and the music of the haip. [With 
 great force.] How dare you presume to judge 
 what is best for one who has had all the experiences 
 of a sojourn in hell! Be at ease on that score — 
 I know what is best for me ! Believe me I should 
 like to have even the respect of Mrs. Hunch, were 
 such a thing possible. Surely, I should like to have 
 your respect, and that of Mr. Fiedler, and Dr. 
 Merril — indeed, the respect of all the good, even 
 though they be inexperienced people. But there is 
 one whose respect is dearer to me than that of all 
 the rest of mankind — mine ! — my own respect for 
 myself! And that I could obtain only by placing 
 my own judgment of myself above that of the 
 world — by an unlimited capacity of appearing 
 before the world as I am — by an unrestrained free- 
 dom of conscience ! It is a gem which I have 
 found in the deepest depths of hell, and with 
 
 w T hich I shall not part for a thousand heavens ! 
 
 j 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [Shaking Hunter, who appears dazed, by the 
 shoulder.] Hunter, Hunter, do you hear that? — 
 The great master — the messiah come from hell — 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Oh, Merril, Merril — 
 
166 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 Our long awaited messiah, come from Chaos 
 and hell to prod us out from our rut — [Turning to 
 Mrs. Hunter.] Mrs. Hunter, hear me all — 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [Interrupting him.] No, wait — let me speak 
 first. [In a loud voice and concise accents.] Mabel, 
 hear me — and you, too, all. The world takes me 
 for a good and pure man. Now I want to tell you 
 something that may surprise you.— 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Interrupting.] No, wait. I am not through. 
 I have a little story to tell you, ladies and gentle- 
 men. There was once a little girl in this city, 
 born of poor and ignorant working people. Her 
 education consisted in telling her lies and filling 
 her with all possible superstitions — the same edu- 
 cation that is given to all the children. Her elders 
 and betters were particularly anxious about her 
 future morality. She was told that she must not 
 play with boys, and the reason given for it at home 
 was that if she did she would receive a beating, and 
 at Sunday School, that she would go to hell. At the 
 
Act III The Quandary. 167 
 
 age of twelve she was considered as sufficiently 
 equipped with that sort of knowledge to enter the 
 industrial field and repay society for the trouble 
 it had taken with her physical and moral educa- 
 tion. The little girl would work hard all day in the 
 cannery and at night she would help her mother 
 with the housework and the tending of the chil- 
 dren. Then her mother died — died from over- 
 work and care — died without having ever seen in 
 her whole life a ray of happiness or hope. The 
 little girl saw it — she knew that the prospect which 
 lay before her was no better than that of her 
 mother's. Once in a great while she would go 
 up town. There she saw happy faces in the streets, 
 and women who rode in motor cars and wore beau- 
 tiful dresses. She saw pretty things displayed in 
 the shop-windows, and she heard the sounds of 
 music coming from the threatre doors. And then 
 she would go back to the alley in which she lived — 
 back to her home. Oh, what a home it was ! 
 There was nothing pretty there; everything was 
 ugly, repulsive, old, dirty, cheap and rotten. There 
 was no light there, no play, no life no hope — 
 everything was decrepid, dark, cheerless, hopehss. 
 A sad and wretched father, a dying baby, a pale 
 and sickly brother. [Her voice falters.] — She 
 found herself in the dark and alone — -she discov- 
 
168 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 ered that her elders and her betters had been lying 
 to her — She was alone, with no one to advise her, 
 no one to enlighten her in her distress. — Like a 
 blind beast at bay she threw herself into the dark- 
 est corner which promised an escape — from ev- 
 erything ! — the work in the cannery, the misery at 
 home, the — [She covers her face with her hands.} 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 Mabel ! — Lizzie — Lizzie ! — You have omitted 
 something — You haven't told them all ! Tell them 
 — tell them all ! — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [She hesitates an instant.} Her little baby 
 brother died just then. — That was the event which 
 decided her — - 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 No, no ! Not that ! Not that ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 Yes, that. — Nothing else ! — Don't listen to him 
 — He doesn't know ! — 
 
Act III The Quandary. 169 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 I do ! Listen — 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 I say no! I tell you you do not know! The 
 o-irl was robbed of the facts of existence to start 
 with, by what you, ladies and gentlemen, probably 
 in a spirit of irony, call the education of the young. 
 And then came the endless drudgery in the cannery, 
 with all the beastliness, the ugliness, the wretched- 
 ness and utter hopelessness that it involves; to- 
 gether with the superadded insult of the Christmas 
 dinner, the morality sermon — all the imbecile ideal- 
 ism of our misguided and imbecile idealists — that 
 it was! That alone! Nothing else! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 [R-nimA" f o his wife's side.] Lizzie, Lizzie! 
 Forgive me Lizzie dearest ! — I have lived in ignor- 
 ance—the darkest, the most debasing ignorance! 
 I have taken the last crumb of sustenance from 
 the struggling girl — her last ray of hope and 
 tried to coin it into vain and gossamer ideals! I 
 have brought death to the living in a stupid effort 
 to resurrect the dead! I have closed my eyes to 
 
170 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 the struggles of the weak [Feinting to Clara.] and 
 thus helped to perpetuate and glorify and elevate 
 the powers of vice! [Suddenly turning to Fiedler.] 
 Mr. Fiedler, do you know what we have been 
 doing? We have been sowing ideals — this is the 
 reason we have been reaping a harvest of thorns. 
 Oh, I see it now clearly ! Ideals are peculiar 
 growths! Bread, bread must be sown! Truth, en- 
 lightenment must be spread — then will a crop of 
 ideals sprout forth; but plant ideals, and thorns 
 will grow ! [Turning to his wife again.] Forgive 
 me, Lizzie dearest! — You have lifted the veil from 
 my eyes. — -You have redeemed me from deepest 
 damnation ! — You are an angel, you are a saint ! 
 
 He holds forth his arms; she hides her face on 
 his breast. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Smiling through her tears.] No, dear — don't 
 call me that. — But you may call me a — little devil ; 
 I like that better — 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 No, no ! Rather the messiah come from Chaos, 
 to prod us out from the rut of stagnation — 
 
Act III The Quandary. 171 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 [Looking in the direction of the door on the 
 right.] My poor little brother! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 Poor boy! And all our efforts couldn't retain 
 him! [Suddenly with deep and sincere emotion.] 
 Dr. Merril — it seems to< me there has been some- 
 thing radically wrong in our methods! We have 
 been apparently on the wrong track! [With in- 
 creasing agitation.] It looks to me as if all our 
 efforts have been absolutely wasted, worse than 
 wasted ! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 We must take stock and begin anew — along to- 
 tally different lines. Our mistake consisted in that 
 we have been continually building — piling up story 
 upon story — while the foundation was hopelessly 
 defective. We must begin by destroying, by pull- 
 ing down — 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 And we must start with ourselves — by a com- 
 plete change of raiment. Down with the old gar- 
 
172 The Quandary. Act III 
 
 ment ! To the flames with it ! Not a vestige of it 
 must be left! [Approaches Blake, who has been 
 standing dazed all the while.] How dared you not 
 follow my advice — my positive prohibition — not 
 to marry while — 
 
 Mr. Blake. 
 
 [Interrupting him.] And this is what you call 
 professional ethics ! Shame on you, Dr. Merril ! A 
 nice kind of a doctor you are ! 
 
 Dr. Merril. 
 
 [With his hand on his forehead.] Ah! Pro- 
 fessional ethics! — Part of the old garment — 
 
 Coleman. 
 
 [To Fiedler, who is directing a forlorn look 
 towards Clara.] You are not to be blamed, Mr. 
 Fiedler. It was only your duty — the duty of the 
 pulpit ! 
 
 Fiedler. 
 
 My duty? The duty of the pulpit? The duty 
 of the pulpit did you say? — Let me see — 
 
Act III The Quandary. 173 
 
 Mrs. Hunch. 
 
 I hope you'll not blame me! What could I 
 have done with her? I couldn't have sent her to 
 the cannery! 
 
 Hunter. 
 
 The cannery ! Do you hear that ? The cannery 
 again ! 
 
 Coleman. 
 
 I fear we shall have to — re-crystallize our sta- 
 tistics. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 THE END. 
 
AUG 8 1918