3545 64 R4 11 py 1 V?:i The Rescue of Prince Hal BY REA WOODMAN, M. A. ELDREDGE ENTERTAINMENT HOUSE, FRANKLIN, - OHIO. To my believing friend, Professor Maurice Ricker, of Des Moines, Iowa, the first rescuer of my budding dramatic ambitions. My greeting across the years between, dear old Comrade! THE PEOPLE OF THE COMEDY Mr. Sydney Parker, Nominal Head of the House, Who has builded his house on Easy Street. Mrs. Sydney Parker, Reigning Head of the House, Who has Serious Social Ambitions. Louise Parker, Their Daughter, Whose desires can mostly be Satisfied by Money. Wellington Parker, Their Son, A Successful Financier in the Making. Harry Henderson Hess, A Vagrant Nephew, Who is Going to School on the Side. Mrs. Katherine Colvin, Their Richest Aunt, Who contemplates givmg away her Money before she Dies. Mr. Andrew Martin, an Elderly Uncle, Who Views with Alarm the Family's growing Social Prestige. Madeline Tracey, of New York City, Who is quite Approachable, in spite of Her Clothes. ^Emma, a Ridiculously Pretty Housemaid. SYiVOPSIS Act I. The Sitlingroom of the Parker Home, one Monday Morning in February . "I am Under-Secretary to the House of Parker. 'Keep off the Grass!' " Act II. The Parlor of the Parker Home, at 6 o'clock, the Evening of the Same Day. "Fact is, Kate, I'm on Easy Street at last." Act III. The Sittingroom of the Parker Home, after breakfast, Tuesday Morning. "You can't wash the gold off your fingers. It sticks — it sticks!" Epilogue. The Diningroom of the Parker Home, Wed- nesday Morning, at 9 o'clock. "I'm to help her do things, — things that count, you know, and keep on counting after you're dead." ACT I (llie Sitting room of the Parker Home, an apartment of careless elegance, one Monday Morning in February. Mrs. Sydney Parker, in a beautiful morning dress, is seated at her writ- ing-desk, looking over bills and letters.) Mrs. P. Mrs. Myers's luncheon on Thursday; at last that much-talked-of luncheon ! I hope she won't wear that everlasting purple cloth! I'm sick and tired of see- ing it ! The Reynoldes dinner on Monday, and the Clark- son wedding on Tuesday, (zvriting in a little book). The musicale Thursday — no, Tuesday, at eleven. I ought to have a new gown for the wedding; I've worn that rose silk three times this winter. It will soon be as famous as Mrs. Myers's purple cloth Hal's report for Jan- uary. 72 in geometry. Poor boy, he gets worse every day. (drops it into the waste basket). And he failed in Latin last term! (takes up a letter). "Mrs. W. Win- nifred Williams requests the honor of your presence at the wedding of her daughter — " (tosses it into the basket). That was ages ago! They're now in the first stages of absolute divorce,— that's how long ago it was I {takes up another letter). (Enter Emma, zcho skirmishes around briskly, looking for something.) Mrs. P. (icithout looking up). Has Hal gone to school? What time is it? Bmma. It's half-past nine. No, jNIa'am, he has n't. He can't find his Latin books. Mrs. P. (tossing a letter into the basket, and taking up another). No, I suppose not. He never can. The last thing that boy thinks about is his school work. Bmma. (demurely). Yes, Ma'am. (She goes to the bookcase, and opens it.) Mrs. P. (zvithout looking up). What are you look- ing for? Emma. Harry's books. Mrs. P. Where is he? Bninia. He has n't gone to school yet. Mrs. P. (looking tip). So you said before. What's he doing? Emma, (zvith reluctance). Eating his breakfast. Mrs. P. (dropping the letter she holds, from surprise). He is? He is? Does he often breakfast at half-past nine ? Emma. No, Ma'am, not often; that is, not so very often. (She takes tivo hooks from the case, and closes the door.) Mrs. P. Did he yesterday? (Emma nods, reluctant- ly). And the day before? (Emma nods.) Well, go on about your work. If those are Hal's books, put them on the table, and leave them there. (Emma does so, and leaves the room. Mrs. Parker sighs, and resumes her occupation, albeit zvith deep depression.) (Enter Mr, Andrew Martin.) Mr. M. Sydney said he left some papers here for me. Do you know anything about them? Mrs. P. No, he did n't say anything about any papers. Mr. M. (going to the table). They are n't here. Maybe he told Hal to bring them down. He wants them this morning. Mrs. P. (leaning hack, pen in hand). Perhaps; you'll have to ask Hal. Do you know, I'm afraid we'll have to send Hal away to school? He's failed in Latin again. Mr. M. (taking up one of the hooks that Emma placed on the table). Failing in Latin is one of his favorite diversions, (smiling). He's breakfasting now. Mrs. P. He has everything a boy can want. I'm sure we do all we can for him. Mr. M. (looking through the hook smilingly). My dear sister, you do too much. That's the trouble. He's C suffering from sheer surfeit. It is not only not best for man to be alone, but it is not best for man to have every- thing he w^ants. Besides, this house is no place for a boy with brains. Mrs. P. (highly indignant). Do you consider it an ideal place for a boy zvithout brains? Mr. M. (still smiling into the book he is running through). Not necessarily. I have never considered it in the light of an asylum. I mean Hal is a chameleon; he takes color from his surroundings. Most clever peo- ple do. I believe it used to be called "the artistic tem- perament." Mrs. P. But what will become of him? Mr. M. (shrugging his shoulders, — a common trick of his). What becomes of other clever boys, spoiled in the same way? He'll become a clubman, in all likeli- hood, and die suddenly, prematurely gray. Mrs. P. (frozvning). "Prematurely gray." What do you mean? Mr. M. Prematurely gray. It is not uncommon in clubmen. Mrs. P. Sydney has been talking of sending him to Annapolis. What do you think? Mr. M. (ivalking tozvard the door). The Navy is eminently respectable. He'll probably be as comfortable there as a man of ability can be in ready-made clothes, moral, social, and otherwise. Mrs. P. "Ready-made clothes?" Why, Andrew, what an expression! I don't see what clothes have to do with Hal's entering the Navy. Mr. M. ( turning at the door). Yes, it is seemingly a far cry from ready-made clothes to an officer of the U. S. Navy, — or any other Navy. Nevertheless, the connec- tion is vital. (He goes out, smiling inscrutably.) Mrs. P. I don't think Andrew knows what he means himself, half the time. (Enter Emma, ivith the morning mail.) Einma. The mail, Mrs. Parker. (She hands it, then zvaits.) Mrs. P. {running over the letters). Tell Miss Louise that I wish to see her. (Emma goes. Mrs. Parker, using a papcrknife with neat dispatch, opens several envelopes.) Kirkwood's bill. I hope he got it here in time. Thirty- five dollars ! It ought to be about fifteen ! We had noth- ing but carnations and sweet peas Bills, bills, bills! And it's only the middle of the month! This looks like Aunt Kate. She always uses these ridiculous square envelopes, (opens a letter and reads alond). "The Knickerbocker, February 19th. My dearest Mary." Aunt Kate! Well, I'll declare! (She scans the whole letter hastily.) She's been in New York a week, and she's- dead tired, and she'll be here tonight. Tonight ! Heav- ens, how things happen ! (Enter LouiSE Parker, in a fetching morning gozvji.) Louise. Emma says you want to see me. Has Hal gone yet? I want him to stop at Wanamaker's for me. Mrs. P. What for? It is time he was at school. Louise. I've 'phoned three times for them to come for that suit. I want it for Thursday sure. Hal can take it on his way down. (She seats herself, and reaches for the letters). Anything for me? Mrs. P. You'd better 'phone for a messenger, and leave Hal go on. He's frightfully late now. Well, guess the latest. Louise. Here's a letter from Madeline. What is the latest ? Mrs. P. (rising, with a tragic gesture). Your Aunt Kate's in America ! Louise, (looking up from her letter). Aunt Kate? Aunt Kate Colvin? I thought she was in Egypt! Mrs. P. She's never where you think she is. She was in Egypt, and she was in Rome, and now she's in New York. She could n't pounce down upon us at a worse time, if she had sat up nights thinking about it. 8 What does Madeline say? Did you invite her for any special time? Louise. Yes, for this week. She'll be here Wednes- day, she says. Mrs. P. (beginning to move about the room, rest- lessly). She can't come. Telegraph her to stay away. Your Aunt Kate's coming tonight. Louise. ;My Aunt Kate? Tonight! Airs. P. Don't repeat things like a parrot ! It's enough to drive one crazy ! Louise. And our dinner on Wednesday ! Mrs. P. {calmly). And our dinner on Wednesday. Louise. Write her you are sick. Mrs. P. What good would it do ? Your relations are always charmed to put up with anything — everything; it's the privilege of being in the family. You can head off your friends, and side-track your enemies, but you can't stop your relations ! If you write them you are away, they'll come and wait for you; if you write 'em you're sick, they'll come to nurse you ; if you write 'em you're in jail, they'll come to get you out; if you write 'em you're dead, they'll come to — to bury you ! Louise, (dejectedly) . That's so. Mrs. P. She wants to see all of us in our own home, she says. She's been suddenly smitten with a longing for home ties. Listen ; this is what she says : "We had a fairly pleasant — •" No, that is n't it. Here it is. "I feel very lonely at .times, so far from mine own people. I'm tired gadding around the world by myself. I'd like to nestle down in some cozy home nook, and rest, rest, rest !" Louise. Fancy Aunt Kate "nestling!" Mrs. P. I can't She never did ; she sat up straight in her cradle. Louise, (-giggling)- I would n't call this "A cozy home nook." Airs. P. (looking around the room slowly). No,. 9 either would I. But she does n't imagine how things are with us, of course. She has n't visited us since you were a little girl. Your father was only a Director then. Louise, (sighing). Yes, times have changed with us. But I was n't very little ; I was in the high school. Don't you remember, it was when we lived in German- town, and were poor but hopeful. That letter sounds as if she would stay a year. Mrs. P. (straightening a ritg). Oh, she won't. I know Kate Colvin. She never stayed in one place six weeks in her life. She'll probably stay two davs and a half. (Enter Harry Henderson Hess, hastily and noisily. He carries some school books, a legal- looking bundle of papers, and a long dangling strap.) Hal. Say, Aunt Mary, do you know where — why, what's the matter? Anybody just died? Mrs. P. Take off your cap, Hal, and lower your voice. I presume you are hunting your Latin books. There they are, on the table. Why are n't you at school ? Hal. (jerking off his cap, and going to the bookcase). Could n't find my geometry, so could n't get my lesson, so I cut the push. I got to stop at the office with these papers for Uncle Syd. I have n't time to go to school. I am a man of affairs, (digs around in the bookcase anxiously) . I believe somebody hides my books, just to blast my career ! Louise, (laughing). You poor boy ! What have you lost? Hal. (going to the divan, and shaking out the cush- ions). What have you lost? You people look as if Dolly Dimple had broken all the cut glass in the house. What's the row? Put me next. Mrs. P. Hal, you must not call Emma "Dolly Dim- ple." It is ridiculous. Hal. The matter is respectfully referred to the Com- 10 mittee on Home Affairs. What's the row, I say? Put me next. Louise, (smiling). Your Aunt Kate is coming to see us. Hal. (discovering his geometry on the divan). Saved again '.—My Aunt Kate. She's a new one on me. Mrs. P. You've heard of your Aunt Kate Colvin, — the one that goes to Europe so often. Hal. (readjusting the cushions on the divan). Oh, Aunt Kate Colvin ! Gee Whizz, she's that rich old party ! Mrs. P. (^zi'ith o sigh). Yes, she's "that rich old party." Louise, (pensively). They say she's worth a million. Hal. (transfixed). A million ! Oh my eyes ! Is her health good? Mrs. P. You've seen your Aunt Kate, have n't you? Hal. (strapping iip his books as he talks). I think I did, once, long before my mother died. She brought me a "Pilgrim's Progress." I remember the picture of the man on the cover. He had a big bundle on his back, and I thought his wife was a washerwoman. Oh, yes, I remember her all right ; handsome, stately. First Family sort. Walks this way. (illustrates). All one piece; no goods exchanged. ]\iy Aunt Kate! Well, I should say yes! It seemeth but yesterday that she gave me that fine old English classic, when my soul yearned for a popgun. Louise. Aunt Kate always gives books She gave me a "Pilgrim's Progress." Hal. With the washerwoman's husband on the cover? Louise. Yes, the bundle tied with gold rope,— a fright- fully big bundle ! Hal. The same, the same. Highly cultured old party. Mrs. P. (gathering up some letters, and going to- z.- to light the lamps Come on, Dolly Dimple, please I Please, Dolly Dimple I (Enter Mr. Martix, slozi-Iy.) Mr. M. (sniffing). What's that nast}" odor ? Is any- thing burning? Hal. Nothing but this lamp. Emma, (going to the defunct lamp). ^Maybe it's this lamp. It went out suddenly. Mr. M. (dryly). I suspected as much. Well, light it again. I hate these gobs of red gloom ! In a house fitted with gas and electricity-, we use coal oil lamps ! We'll be swell even if we all die of suffocation I Where's the paper? Hal. (icatching Emma relight the lamp.) Uncle Andy, I'm sorr}- to see you in the dumps, this night of all nights. Cheer up ; the Moneyed Member of the Fam- ily is about to descend upon us. Emma. Is that all, ^Ir. Martin? Mr.M. (more graciously )^ Yes, my dear, unless you get me the evening paper. Emma. I'll see if it's come yet. {She goes out, se- dately. I Hal. Uncle Andy, I don't think you ought to call Emma "my dear.'' She's a poor girl, making her own living, and it's hard enough without — Mr. M. (seating himself confortahly in a big chair). She is, and incidentally she's a mighty pretty one. I am an old man, and it's one of the fifteen privileges of old age to call every prett)' girl "my dear." Hal. But still a pretty girl's only a wom.an, and all women are prone to misunderstand such "privileges." I think you ought to be more careful. 19 Mr. M. (leaning foncard and inspecting Hal's sJwes). My dear nephew, where do your new shoes pinch? Hal. (rescntfnlly). What do yon mean? These shoes are n't new. Mr. M. Neither is the joke — nor the situation. But let us avoid personaHties and trivahties. You say that Mrs. Colvin is coming tonight? Hal. (stramming around resentfnlly). She is. Mr. M. {pleasantly conversational). Ah, I've heard much of Mrs. Katherine Colvin. She is what one might call a Family Institution. Is she handsome? Hal. (knocking over an ornament). All rich women are handsome. Mr. M. (raising his brozvs). You answer with a wisdom beyond your years. What did you break? Sit down, why don't you, or turn up the light if you can't see. Hal. (repairing the damage Jiastily). Oh, I can see, thank you. I'm not so young as I look. Mr. M. (zvith a broad grin). My dear nephew, if your shoes pinch, why don't you change 'em? (Emma comes in zvith the paper, zvUich she hands to Mr. Martin.) Thank you, my dear. It's a great comfort to have a girl like you around the house. Emma. Thank you, Mr. Martin, (goes). Hal. (zvhile Mr. Martin is opening the paper). Say, Uncle, speaking of Aunt Kate, did you know that she is — Mr. M. (scanning the paper, reading headlines only). "Congress is Waiting." Is Congress ever doing anything else? (reads). "The Strike Situation Unchanged." I don't know that we expected it to change. The "strike situation" is chronic, (reads). "Seventy-Five I\Iiners Entombed. All Given Up for Dead." Poor devils, poor devils!" (reads). "Her Wedding Gown Costs Fifteen Thousand." And cheap at that probably. And yet peo- 20 pie wonder why the Socialist Party is growing in grace ! (to Hal). Well, speaking of your Aunt Kate, what is it? We've been speaking of her all day. Hal. (■zi'alkiiig up and doivn). That's a most unfor- tunate affliction, is n't it? Mr. M. {from over his paper). What affliction? {Enter LouiSE, ivcaring a high-neck evening gown.) Louise. Oh, I thought Mamma was here. That new cook does n't know straight up ! — Well Hal, I have n't seen your hair so slick since you gave your oration. {She takes a highly dramatic attitude, her eyes full of laugh- ter). "And when the People are aroused at last,^the People, in whose toil-worn hands the sovereign power is vested ; the People^ whose mighty voice rings down the living ages, — when the People, I say, are roused as a strong man — -" Hal. Oh, I say, Louise, let up ! Louise. But your hair does look brand-new, Hal, hon- est. Aunt Kate ought to feel honored. Mr. M. I wonder how she will feel when she sees you? Are you actually going to dinner in that dress? Louise, {surprised). Why, yes, Uncle, I thought I would. Why? Mr. M. {anxiously) . Are you comfortable? Louise, {gazing doivn at her dress, puzalcd). Yes, I — I think so. Or at least I thought I was. What is the matter with me? Mr. M. Turn around. Where is your train? Where are your pearls? And where is — pardon me, but where is your neck? Louise. Oh, you mean this old dress? I thought you did n't like low-necked gowns? Air. M. I don't. I despise 'em. I have n't seen you look so nice since you wore your hair in pigtails. Louise. Thank you. Uncle Andy. Mr. M. How do you like her, Harry? 21 Hal. Oh, for a change she'll do, but when a girl has a pretty neck, why should she wear a collar up to her ears? Louise, {to Hoi). Is n't this more home-like? Hal. (zinth a grin of itndcrsfanding). Yes, more Orphan-home-like ! You look like a portrait trying to come out of its frame. Mr. M. Hal, be careful. You stand a horrible chance of becoming epigrammatic. Louise. That's too much for me. I must see to the dinner. Aunt Kate ought to be here in a few minutes. (goes). Mr. AL What were you saying about ]\Irs. Colvin? Hoi. (taking up o hook, and seating himself). Aunt Kate? I don't remember especially.' il/r. il/. You said she had an affliction of some sort. Hal. (migJitily engaged zvitJi his book). Oh, did I? Maybe I referred to her money. ]\Ir. M. (not zvithout irritation). No, you did n't. You meant a — er — a physical infirmity. (The distant door bell rings.) Hal. (zcitJi engaging rehictojice). I guess I should n't have mentioned it, if Aunt Mary has n't told you. INIaybe Aunt Kate's sensitive about it. I had n't thought of that. Now a man would n't think of trying to hide such a thing. (There are gay voices beyond the por- tieres.) Mr. M. What's the matter with her, Boy? Hal. I guess I had better let Aunt Mary tell you — Mr. il/. But I ought to know. Don't you under- stand how embarrassing it will be — Hoi. (hastily rising). Hush, Uncle Andy! Here she is ! (Enter Mr. Sydney Parker and Mrs. Katherine Colvin, ladened like travelers.) Mr. P. (joyously). I got her! (to Hal). My dear 22 boy, this is your Aunt Kitty. (to Mrs. Colvin). I think you've never met Uncle Andy, — Alary's brother? Mrs. C. {extending her gloved Jiand). I'm deHghted to meet you, "Uncle Andy." I must call you that, must n't I? (to Hal). And who is this big boy? I ought to know your eyes. (She studies Hal's face earnestly.) Is this Harry Henderson Hess? Mr. M. Prince Hal, the Exuberant, Mrs. Colvin. "Harry Henderson Hess" only when the pay roll is made out. Mrs. C. (to Hal). You have your mother's eyes. vYou poor motherless boy! Kiss me! (to Mr. Parker). I had forgotten that the boy was with you. I have n't seen him since he wore kilts, — when they lived in Reading, you know, (takes dif her hat). Hal. (recovering his self-assuranec). I remember when you came to see us. We had apple dumplings for desert, and you gave me a "Pilgrim's Progress," and you wore big gold bracelets. Mrs. C. (shedding her ivraps). Did I? I suppose you were very much impressed? Hal. (assisting her). I did n't want a book; I wanted a popgun. Mr. M. (reseating herself, still holding the paper). I'll wager you did ! Any old thing to make a noise ! (to Mrs. Colvin). He still likes the popgun variety of gift. Mr. P. (collecting the n'raps and baggage). \Miere's Mamma? And Louise? I'll call them. (He goes, quite flushed zvith happiness.) Mrs. C. (seating herself zvith the little preening movements of a pretty zvoman zvho has just taken off her zvraps). And Wellington is a man, in business for him- self. It makes me feel about one hundred! (to Mr. Martin, zvho shon's a secret anxiety to get hack to his paper). Go on with your paper, Uncle Andy. We never suspend family habits for me. (to Hal). Come here, Prince Hal. Do you still like popguns? 23 Hal. (dnnving o lozi' ottoman near her chair-). Are you going to give me a present? Mrs. C. Bo)', you are very like your mother. Of course I'm going to give you a present — several, I hope. Wliat would you rather have? Hal. Will you really give me what I want most — of all the things in the world? Mrs. C. (pensively). There are a good many things in the world, — beautiful things, useful things, worthless things, — a good many things ! What do you want most — an automobile? Hal. (seriously and awkwardly). No, I'd — I'd rather have books. (Mr. Martin looks over the top of his paper in mild surprise.) Mrs. C. (incrednloiisly). Books? You'd rather have books than an automobile? Hal. (earnestly). Yes, Ma'am. (Mr. Martin lowers Jiis paper an inch.) Mrs. C. Well, this is the pleasantest shock I've had for a long time. I did n't know I was going to find a "book}" nephew ! What books do you want ? Hal. (at a venture). Gibbon's "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," and — and Plutarch's "Lives." (Mr. Martin's paper sinks two inches.) ^frs. C. (tilti)ii^' Hal's face ligJitly). Really do you want such books? Why have n't I known it all these years? "Honor bright?" Hal. Honor bright, x\unt Kate. (Mr. Martin's paper sinks lower.) Mrs. C. What do you read most, — history? Hal. Yes, history and — er economics. (Mr. Martin's paper sinks to his knees zvith a rustling crash.) Mrs. C. (turning, startled). Oh, what is the mat- ter. Mr. Martin? Mr. M. (rising, and sputtering from suppressed laughter). I — I forgot s — s — something. Excuse me. ( lie hurries out.) 24 Hal. (calmly). You must n't mind Uncle Andy. He's absent-minded, and then he — he's frightfully deaf. Mrs. C. Deaf ? The poor man ! I had n't noticed it. Hal. (picking tip her handkerchief). Oh, he pre- tends he is n't, but half the time he does n't hear a thing. And of course we try not to notice it. Mrs. C. Of course not. The poor man ! (Enter Mrs. Parker, soberly gozi'ned.) Mrs. P. ]\Iy dear Aunt Kate ! Mrs. C. yiy dearest Mary ! ]\Irs. P. (holding her at arms' length). How well you're looking ! This is a delightful surprise ! Airs. C. (reseating herself). It's a surprise to me. I had n't any idea of coming home for three months yet. Mrs. P. (seating herself). You're going to take a good long rest no\y, I hope? (Hal, having risen at Mrs. Parker's entrance, reseats himself on the ottoman.) Mrs. C. I don't know. ' I have several projects on hand, and business is business, even when you're tired. Mrs. P. (unfurling a tiny fan). Always strenuous,. Aunt Kate. Mrs. C. Not strenuous, but interested. It's such a big, big world, and there are so many people in it doing so many queer and pathetic things I I wish I might live a thousand years ! Mrs. P. (smiling that gracious society smile that li'on't come off). That does n't sound very much like a tired woman. Mrs. C. Oh, I'm not tired. I have never been tired in my life, I think. With people who don't have to earn their own living, weariness is a mere pose, more or less fashionable. I can't get things done fast enough. — I can't live enough at one time, that's all the trouble with me. Mrs. P. (smiling that stylish s)uilc, and toying n'lth the little fan). The women of Egypt again. Aunt Kate? Mrs. C. (carelessly). Yes, Egypt, and other outly- 25 ing districts. (She turns to Hal, as if for relief). And it makes me feel young just to look at this big boy here. How like your sister he is ! Mrs. P. (looking at Hal loz'itigly) . Yes, he is very like her, — veryJike her. Mrs. C. What are you interested in, Hal? Books, you say? Mrs. P. Oh yes, books, books, books ! This is his last year in the high school, and of course his work is very heavy. Hal. (zvith a very geniii)ie sigh). Yes, I got to dig. A. man can't do much nowadays without an education. Mrs. C. (looking at Hal thoughtfully). Oh, I don't know. It depends upon the man. Of course some men are able to succeed in spite of their education, but it takes a strong man to do it. What are you going to do ? Hal. (plaiting her laced handkerchief on his knee, for he has retained it since picking it up). Ask the Powers. Aunt Mary, what am I going to do? Mrs. P. His Uncle thinks he had better go to An- napolis. j\Irs. C. (sitting erect). The Navy? Send tJiis boy to the Navy? Mrs. P. (complacently). His Uncle thinks it's just the place for him. Mrs. C. (sitting erect er). Sydney must have taken leave of his senses ! His father did n't send Jiini to the Navy ! Hal, do you want to go to Annapolis ? Hal. (without looking up from his meditative plait- ing) . Ask the Powers. Mrs. C. (gravely). I am asking you. Do you want to go to Annapolis? Hal. (intent on his occupation). No, I can't say that Pm yearning to parade the high seas in a war ship. Mrs. C. Do you believe in war? Hal. (quietly, not looking up). No. Mrs. P. (laughing). How funny you are, Aunt 26 Kate ! Hal's never had two thoughts about war in all his life! What's a boy of his age "believe" or disbelieve? (Hal is apparently too much absorbed in the laced hand- kerchief to notice this.) And the Navy is so easy and* ■ aristocratic ! Why, a man's career is practically ready- made, you know. Hal. Yes, a sort of hand-me-down. Mrs. C. (iiinch zcrought upon). It's the last place on earth for a man of real energy ! You might as Avell send a boy to a monastery, and be done with it. In either case you tie his hands most effectually. I hope I'll never live to see a nephew of mine relegated to the Xavy. There are other side-tracks that are at least progressive. Hal. (looking up at last). I guess there's no use getting excited. I may not pass. Wellington's bet me a runabout that I won't graduate. Mrs. C. (sinking back in her chair). Are you very anxious to graduate? (Enter ^Ir. Parker, in high spirits.) Mr. P. (beaming on them all). Hal anxious to graduate?' Not so anybody 'd notice it. His ambition is to be arrested for scorching. I tell him he does n't ap- preciate his advantages. ^^ by, when I was Hal's age I owned the third interest in a milk route, horse and wagon and all ! — Do you remember, that old speckled horse, Kitty, w'all-eyed as a bat? And the wagon — each w'heel pointing a different w^ay? Everything about the outfit wobbled ; you could hear us coming a mile ! Yes sir, I started life driving a milk wagon ; I was eleven years old, and I got up every morning at 4 o'clock, and hustled around like a good one. And when I'd sneak down stairs in the dark, Kitty would stick her head through a crack of the door, and say, "Got your mit- tens, Syd?" Mrs. C. (laughing gently). And you never had! And you would n't wear ear mufflers ! I never slept any after you'd gone. I expected the milkman to bring you 27 home any minute, frozen stiff! Mr. P. {striding iip and dozvn in the greatest enjoy- ment, plumy and proud). Christmas, but was n't it cold those January mornings ! Why, the milk cans burned your hands, they were so bloomin' cold ! Show me any- thing frostier than a two gallon can of skim milk at 4 o'clock of a winter morning — show me ! We did n't use bottles in those days ; we ladeled it out Avith a battered old dipper, and the people left jugs and pitchers on the steps for me to stumble over. And the old horse would amble along^, lost in his own meditations, and the sun would n't come up, and would n't come up, and zvouJd n't come up! That's the sort of thing that makes a man of a boy, I'm here to tell you! I earned two dollars a week, and now (icitJi a comprehensive gesture) here we are! {He slaps Hal on the hack.) You've got a cinch, my boy, breakfasting with the family at 9 o'clock! Hal. {grinning). Do you want me to drive a milk wagon ? Mr. P. I want you to appreciate your opportunities, and pay some attention to your studies. I had only three years' schooling, sandwiched in at odd times, and I earned the money to pay for that. It was a hard pull, but I made it. Hey, Kitty? How do you like our shack? Mrs. C. I think that you were very lucky to find such a house. You rent it for the winter season. I suppose? It's a very good idea. Mr. P. Rent it the deuce ! I should say we did n't ! Mrs. C. Oh. Syd, you don't mean to say that you ozi.'n this beautiful house? Mr. P. {with ill-concealed pride). No, I don't, but Mary does. I gave it to her two years ago as a slight token of esteem and regard. Fact is, Kate, I'm on Easy Street at last. The women folks can give all the tea- l^iarties they want to, and Wellington — Hal. {rising, having been in telegraphic communica- tion with Mrs. Parker for some time). "From ]\Iilk Wagon to Bank President. Or, How He Won Out. A 28 Story for Boys. In Five Volumes. Volume One. A Happy Four O'Clock." — x'Vunt Mary, I'm famished. Is the new cook still on the job? Mrs. P. One never knows. I left Louise trying to straighten things out. Go see what you can do. (Hal goes.) Mr. P. There is no hurry. Give the woman time — give the woman time, (to Mrs. Colvin). As I was say- ing, the women have their swell tea parties, Wellington has his own car, and Hal has only to choose. Mrs. C. (zanth guarded interest). What do you mean, "Hal has only to choose?" Mr. P. (still zvalkiiig about, elate). I mean that the boy can do what he pleases. Wellington wants to coach him, but I rather favor the Navy. I say Wall Street does n't offer a young man a broad enough field, — that is, it is hardly a profession in itself. So I favor the Navy. So does Mary. The boy's got brains enough, if only he'd apply himself. The last thing on earth he thinks about is his books. "But there's no hurry; we're never young but once. Let him have his fling. I'll see that he never wants for anything. I've made enough and to spare for all of us, thank God. Mrs. P. (who Jias been more or less nervous for some time. — mostly more!). Sydney, for pity's sake! Stop ! Knock on wood ! — Aunt Kate, I never knew him to prance around and boast like this before. Mr. P. I guess a man has a right to tell his own. sis- ter how he's getting on in the world. Kitty stayed by^ me when we were poor, and I will not desert her in the days of my prosperity. (Enter Louise and W^ellington.) Well, (smiling a general "Good evening" on every- body). A noble sentiment, father. I take off my hat. Mrs. C. (rising impulsively). And who is this — not Louise ? Louise. My dear Aunt Kate! We're very happy to see you. 29 J Veil. Dad, here a minute. (He consults zcith his father, apart.) Mrs. C. \Yell, well, what a young lady you have be- come ! .All you children seem to have grown .up over night. Louise. Like mushrooms, as it were. I've been try- ing to hurry up dinner, but you know what a new cook is. — Mamma, ]\Irs. Reynoldes wants you at the 'phone. (Nodding apologies to Mrs. Colvin, Mrs. Parker leaves the room.) Louise. Aunt Kate, you don't look five minutes older. How dare you defy time ! Mrs. C. (reseating herself). 'Tis false! Mr. P. (turning from Wellington). All right. Tell him seventy thousand ; not a cent less. And the deal must be closed by 6 o'clock tomorrow. Now, don't ask me anything more about business. My sister Kate's here, and the shop is closed for a holiday, (to Louise). Daughter, how queer you look ! Is it your hair ? Well, (putting tip his pocket notebook). Dad, never ask a woman that question ! First place, they're never sure whose hair it is ; second place, if they did know, it would be even more embarrassing. Most likely that hair grew on the head of some fair peasant girl. — Or is it American grown, Louise? Mr. P. (inspecting Louise). Well, but you seem so strange. You look like some naughty little girl who grew up to be a saint. Mrs. C. And died in the last chapter. Well. A moving example to all other naughty little girls. Mr. P. (turning Louise around by her slioulders). It must be your dress. I don't think you fixed up much for your Aunt Kitty. Well, (inspecting Louise curiously). By George, that's what makes you look so natty, — that short dress ! Now you're the little "Weezy" who used to fight with me for the last caramel in the box. "As sure as the vine 30 grows 'round the stump, You are my precious sugar lump." I like my lost little sister. {The distant door bell rings sharply, twice.) (to Airs. Calvin.) ysually Louise prefers the serpentine effect — the silky, slazy, snakey style. Mrs. C. (looking at Louise as if sJie icere a great distance off). I'm sorry to hear it. I came over on the Mnritania, you know, and all the women were dragging those abominable trains about. I think I'll go home on a tramp steamer! Mr. P. "Home," Kitty? Don't you consider America your home? "Home is where the heart is," they say. rrr//. Aunt Kate's heart is with the down-trodden and the oppressed, "from Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand." The people in America are too comfortable for Aunt Kate. • Mrs. C. (smiling). Not too comfortable, but too complacent. (Hnter Hal, a snowy napkin pinned on as an- apron, and beating a small silz'cr tray, as if it were a gong.) Louise, (to Hal, an.viousl\). Who was it rang the bell ? Hal. (parading around, beating the goiig). Give it up. Dinner is now served in the dining car ! First call for dinner ! First call for dinner ! Dinner is now served in the dining car ! First call for dinner ! (<]\Iadeline; Tracey, handsomely gowned for travelings steps between the portieres, and stands, watcliing the family group zvith smiling archness.) Mr. P. (placing his hands on Louise's shoulder). Kitty, what do you think of my little girl? And Well- ington, here, — is n't he a pretty fine specimen? Well. Dad, don't ! You make me feel like a prize pumpkin ! Hal. (beating Jiis silver gong softly). Ladies and gentlemen, we next invite your attention to Exhibit B. Catalogue Number 11507. The Only Napoleon of 31 i4X««^*> finance in Captivity. This extraordinary specimen was caught red-handed — il/r#. P. Now, Harry, snbsitle. — Wellington, come here. Stand beside your sister. Closer. There, show me anything finer in the City of Brotherly Love ! {gaaes at thciii zvith open pride). Now, Kitty, these are my "hostages to fortune." Jllad. And a brave brace of braing they be, yer Honor! (Everybody turns, startled.) Louise, (aghast). Madeline! Well, (joyously, starting forzvard.) Madeline! Hal. (dropping the siher gong). "And the band played 'Annie Laurie !' " ACT HI (The Sitting room of the Parker Home, after breakfast, Tuesday Monting. Mr. Martin is reading the paper. Enter H.\h, in his usual ' headlong fashion.) Hal. Where's my Aunt Kate? Mr. M. Not knowing, I could not say. Why are n't you at school? Hal. (taking up a chance book, and seating himself). I don't have to go to school today. I'm delegated to show Aunt Kate the town. Guess I'll study till she comes down. Mr. M. (sarcastically). Don't distress yourself. Hal. (cheerfully). Oh. she w^on't be long. We're going to have lots of fun "browsing in the bookshops," as Aunt Kate says. Mr. M. (grinning over the top of his paper). Gib- bon's "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire'' or Plutarch's "Lives?" Hal. (gravely). Popguns. (There succeeds a silence, both of them reading, Hal zvith grozving absorption.) Mr. M. (su'ddenly). Say, what's the matter with Mrs. Colvin? 32 Hal. (looking up from liis book). I did n't know that Cleopatra was an Grecian, did you ? Mr. M. There are several things you don't know, my son. I was not speaking of Cleopatra. Listen. I am asking about Mrs. Colvin. What's the matter with her? Hal. (lost in scholarly speculations). There is n't anything the matter with her, I hope. Cleopatra married her brother, a little shaver about ten years old. Now don't that beat you? That was the regular thing with kings and queens in those days, this man says. Ex- cuse me. Air. M. (severely). I am asking about Mrs. Colvin. Please have the politeness to attend to my question. What is the matter with her? Hal. (z'agucly). "Alatter with her," — with my Aunt Kate? Why, nothing, that I know of. What do you mean ? Mr. M. You said last night that she had a — er — a — that is, I understood you to say she had a physical in- finnity. Hal. (staring at him). I never said any such thing, so help me ! Oh, yes, I remember now. Mr. M. (impatiently). Well, what is it? Hal. (slozvly). Why, she's — she's^did n't Aunt Mary tell you? Mr. M. If she had, would I be asking you? Hal. I'd rather let Aunt Alary tell you. It's her place. Mr. M. What is it, I say ? Hal. (zi'ith manifest reluctance). Why, she's — she's horribly deaf. Mr. M. She did n't seem so last night. Hal. (carelessly). Of course not; she's awfully sen- sitive about it, and pretends to hear lots more than she does. But pshaw, most deaf people do that. Is n't she 33 great? She knows everything, and she's not a bit stuck up about it. I wish she'd adopt me. Mr. M. (shrugging) . Adopt you! Adopt you? (looks him over coolly). You'd be a bird to adopt! I'd as soon adopt a ]\Iauser rifle ! \\'hat would she do with you ? Hal. (slozcly, z^'isf fully). Love me. (Uliiie Mr. Martin is staring, speechless li'ith astojiishnient,) (Enter Emma.) Eniuia. (to Hal). Your Aunt wants you right away. Hal. (looking at her remotely, wistfully). Which aunt? I have two aunts now. Dolly Dimple. Emma, (quite gently). Mrs. Parker. Hal. (coming out of it). Do you not see that you are disturbing my studies? Emma, (siniling). Yes, but your aunt wants you right away. (goes). Hal. (marking his place in the book n'ith much pomp). Present tense, imperative mood. That's my Aunt Alary, (to Mr. Martin). This is the way it goes. You see how much studying one can get done in this house. (He starts out.) Mr. M. Oh, Harry, by the way— Hal. (turjiing). Yes, what is it? Mr. M. I don't think you ought to call Emma "Dolly Dimple." She's only a poor girl, trying to earn her own living, and it's — Hal. (zcitii an expansizr grin). She is, and inci- dentally she's a mighty pretty one. If Aunt Kate asks for me, tell her to wait. I'll be back in a minute, (goes, zi'ith his head nnusually erect). Mr. M. (solus). Love him! The Prince is getting sentimental I suppose the boy does miss his mother, Mary and Louise being so taken up with social stunts. It's not much of a place to raise a harum-scarum like Hal. He'll probably wind up in jail — or Congress! Love him ! That's the first time I've heard him intimate 34 that life is not all beer and skittles. {He takes up his paper zuith an nnconscioits sigh, then lozvers it.) Love him ! The poor lonesome kid ! {Enter Mrs. Colvin, zvearing her hat, and carry- in (j her gloves, furs and long coat.) Mrs. C. {hesitatingly). I thought Harry was here. {Mr. Martin, reading, does not hear her.) I thought Harry was here. Oh, I forgot ; he's deaf. ( Then she speaks in a loud and painfully distinct tone, as she does througJiout the interz'iezv.) Do you know where Harry is, j\Ir. Martin? Mr. M. {looking up in surprise, and anszvering in a loud, distinct tone, as he does throughout the interuiezv) . He was here a minute ago, and he said to ask you please to wait. Mrs. C. {staring at him). Hal and I are going shop- ping — going "to take the day off," as he says, but I feel rather ashamed to keep him out of school. Air. M. Oh, you need n't mind that. He has more days off than on. Mrs. C. {seating herself near him). You mean there are so many distractions? Mr. M. {aside). The devil! She thinks I'm deaf, too! {to Mrs. Calvin). Oh, he does n't give two whoops for school. But it does n't matter; he won't need to know much. Mrs. C. {frozvning, aside). The poor dear man! He thinks I'm deaf! {aloud). What do you mean, he won't have to know much? Mr. M. All he'll have to do is Play the Game. Mrs. C. What game? Mr. M. The Money Game. Mrs. C. {edging her chair closer). Wall Street? Mr. M. Wall Street, the Speedway, Midnight Cafes, chorus beauties, — that sort of thing. They call it "Play- ing the Game." J 35 Mrs. C. (anxious, but z'aliantly shouting). He's go- ing to graduate, is n't he? Mr. M. (aside). She'll burst a blood-vessel! (aloud). He'll never get that far. This is no place for study. He can't put his mind on books when everybody else is talking about motor cars and bridge, can he? Mrs. C. No. Mr. Martin, no boy could. (Aside). This is dreadful ! Mr. M. That's what I say. No boy could. Hal's a fine fellow, but he's too much of a boy not to care, (aside). This is terrible! A^rs. C. Care for what? Mr. M. (aside). How she does shout at me! — (aloud) — For the things other people are caring about. Mrs. C. Of course not. (Enter jMadelini; Tracey, in an elaborate morning gozvn, and carrying an evening zvrap.) Mad. (smiling at Mr. Martin, hut addressing Mrs. Colvin). Pardon me, Mrs. Colvin, but I want to know how you like this wrap that I brought Louise. She has n't seen it yet. Mr. M. (looking tozvard the door, like a trapped man). Where did you say you and Hal were going, Mrs. Colvin ? Mrs. C. (taking the zvrap from Madeline, but speak- ing to Mr. Martin in a loud tone). We are going to the book shops and the Art Gallery. Mr. M. (rising zvith celerity, and speaking in a loud tone, to Madeline's polite surprise). I'll get you my catalogue of the paintings. Mrs. C. (nodding). Thank you, I shall be glad to have it. (Mr. Martin goes out, glad to make his escape). Mad. Pardon me, Mrs. Colvin, but why do you shout at Mr. Martin like that? Mrs. C. [examining the zvrap). Because he's deaf. Mod. No, he is n't. You ask him. Mrs. C. Yes, he is, deaf as a barn door, poor man. 36 I'm quite exhausted trjang to talk to him. Is n't it too bad? And he's so clever. And he thinks I'm deaf! It was too funny! He positively roared at me! We were talking about Hal. Mad. {carelessly). Yes, Hal is a fortunate boy. I think he's such a dear ! Mrs. C. Why is he a fortunate boy ? ^lad. Why, he'll have everything on earth, — the Par- kers are awfully fond of him. He'll step right into the best set in Philadelphia, and Wellington's good for 'most anything in New York. Most boys would give their eyes to be in Hal's shoes. How do you like that? Try it on. Mrs. C. (shrinking back). Oh, my dear, I'm too old for such gorgeous things ! Mad. {taking the zvrap). Go on; I want to see how it hangs. (Mrs. Colvin permits Madeline to put it on her, though with silent protestations.) Oh, how charm- ing you look ! You lovely thing ! Walk around! (Mrs.. Colvin does so, pretending to be very "swell:") It's just perfect on you. You ought to have one like it. Mrs. C. (looking dozi'n at herself). I'm never happy in this sort of thing. Let's see you in it. (The exchange is made.) There, that's something like! Mad. (sailing around, quite in her cleincnt). Do you think Louise will like it? Airs. C. (adjusting the set of the wrap). Of course she'll like it, but — pardon me, but has Louise anything to wear with it? Mad. (squirming around in an endeavor to see the back). Louise? Louise Parker? She has some of the- swellest gowns you ever saw. Mrs. C. (seating herself, and taking up her gloves). Then Louise is a societv girl ? Mad. She is one of the most popular girls in Phila- delphia. Did n't you know? You ought to be proud of Louise ; she cuts a wide swath, I tell you. And she's popular in the best sense ; people like her for herself, yoiv 37 T^now, not because her mother gives such beautiful enter- tainments. Most popularity is no deeper than that ; you are liked for what you can give. No give, no get. So- ciety is an awful graft, really. How do you like these sleeves ? Airs. C. (fitting on her gloves ivith absent careful- ness). They are very pretty. If society is such a graft, why do you care about it? Mad. I don't care about it particularly ; nobody does. But it's something to do. The days are long enough, as it is. (Enter Mr. Martin, with a book.) Mr. M. (very loudly, to Airs. Colvin, zvho rises to Jake the book). Here is the latest catalogue. 1909. . Airs. C. (in a loud tone). Thank you. Mr. Martin, pardon me, but I want to ask you — I mean I thought you — (desperately) That is, are n't you deaf? Air. M. (in a loud tone). No, Mrs. Colvin, I am not deaf. Mrs. C. (in an ordinary tone). Then I beg your pardon for shouting at you. I thought — that is, Hal said, — or I should say I understood him to say that you were. Mr. M. (zvrathfully) . Did Hal tell you I was deaf? Mrs. C. Yes, Mr. Martin. Adr. M. Why, Hal told me you were deaf. Mrs. C. (indignantly). I'm not! Adr. M. (laughing grimly). Either am I. Mad. (laughing). Then it's up to the Prince to make amends. (Bnter Hal, carrying his overcoat 'and hat.) Hal. (radiantly). I'm ready. Aunt Kate. Let's hike. (to Madeline). It's up to me to make amends for what? I owe not any man. Mrs. C. You said your uncle was deaf. Mr. M. You told me Mrs. Colvin was deaf. 38 Hal. (agreeably). E'en so. What then? Air. M. Here we've been shouting at each other like a pair of fog-horns — Hal. {zinth tranquil impudence). If your new shoes pinch, Uncle Andy, why don't you change 'em? Mr. M. Oh, I see. I see. Sits the wind in that quarter? — Shall I tell your Aunt how your shoes pinched ? Hal. (looking him in the eye, as man to man). As you please. But really I don't think the story would in- terest a woman of Aunt Kate's experience. There's some mail for you in the hall. Mr. M. (smiling). A rascal often saves himself by his cleverness; a prince, by his impudence, (turns to leave the roam). Well, well, beg your aunt's pardon, and I'll call it square. (He goes, rather tickled than othencise.) Mad. What is this parable of the shoes? Hal. (turning to Airs. Colvin, zvho stands gravely regarding Jiim). Aunt Kate, I beg your pardon. Uncle Andy made me mad and I did it to get even. But that was — that was (stops, turns azvay, then faces the music resolutely) that was before you came. I mean it — it began before I — before I saw you. (He begins to fum- ble in Jiis pockets confusedly.) Mrs. C. What difference could that make? Hal. (embarrassed, but standing by his guns). I would n't have — I mean I could n't have started such a game after I saw you. Nobody could. I tried to call it off afterwards, but Uncle Andy kept at me. And I — did n't realize how embarrassing it would be for you. (He turns to Madeline, zvho has been zvatching him curiously). Are you going to the opera this morning, Miss Tracey? Mad. (taking a fczv mincing steps). This is the wrap I brought for Touise. Do you like it? Hal. (taking a fold of the cloth in his hand). Yes,, it's swell. Louise will look stunning in that. 39 Mad. (poittino^). Don't I look stunning? Hal. (3h you, you always look out of sight. You're the Swellest Thing Going. j\Iad. (throiving him a kiss). Hal, you're a dar- ling, — a perfect darling! You pay me the nicest com- pliments of any man I know. Hal. (admiring her li'ith the frankness of on «;r- spoiled boy). I'd sure be a lunkhead if I could n't ap- preciate you in that creation. You're — you're — why, your regal! (Mrs. Colvin studies this byplay z^'ith covert disapproval.) Mad. (taking off the zvrap). If I'm regal, being but a commoner, I suppose a real Prince would be royal. You put it on, — have you ever worn an opera coat? Hal. (permitting her to help him on zcith it. and displaying boyish pleasure in the performance). I have not made a practice of wearing one. These sleeves are great. Why don't you always wear sleeves lined with cobwebs ? Mad. (standing off to look at him). You handsome boy ! How do you feel ? Hal. I feel as if I ought to dine off peacocks' tongues •exclusively. "Bring forth the catiff !" "Updrawbridge, groom ! What warden, ho !" that's the way I feel. (Bnter LouiSE, in a subdued morning goz^'n.) Hal. Louise, look what Madeline brought you. Is n't it swagger? Louise. Oh, is that for me — truly? Why ^Madeline Tracey, that's perfectly dear of you ! Let me try it on. I hope I look as well in it as Hal does. Hal. (watching the transfer zvith interest). It's just the right length. Are n't the sleeves out of sight? — Aunt Kate, look at Louise ! iMrs. C. (looking at Hal, and speaking gently). It's very effective. (The girls discuss the zvrap apart.) I did n't know you were so fond of pretty clothes, Harry. Hal. I'm not fond of them — especially, but a fellow 40 has to care for what's around, I suppose. And look at that ! It's a thing of beauty, even if Louise were n't in it. I think that women wear such dandy togs. Mrs. C. (rising to get her coat). Some women do not. Hal. (springing to get it). You mean poor women? Mrs. C. Poor women and ignorant women and — women in bondage. Hal. Women in bondage — I know. The women of Egypt. Mrs. C. (adjusting her furs). What do you know about the women of Egypt? Hal. (straggling into his overcoat). I know they have n't any cloaks like that, and they don't go to the opera, not on your life. It's pretty tough to be a woman over there. Believe me. Don't you wear overshoes? Where are they? Mrs. C. In the hall. Hal. I'll get them. We got to hustle. (He hurries out.) Louise, (coming forivard). ]\Iadeline says that I can change this, if I don't like the shade. Do you think gray would be more becoming? Mrs. C. (gently, sadly). I think gray is a beauti- ful shade for evening, dear. (Enter We;lIvINGTon, zvearing a furred coat, and carry- ing his hat.) Well. I've brought the car around. Come on, every- body, let's show Aunt Kate what can be done in the way of speed. And we'll show this New York girl a thing or two. (He places his hand an instant on Madeline's arm.) (to Mrs. Colvin). Are you going out? Mrs. C. I promised Hal I'd buy him some books. Louise, (starting for the door). Let's all go with W'ellington. Hal w-on't mind. Well. It's a fine morning. The air is like champaign. 41 {Enter Hai,, radiant, zvith the overshoes.) Hal. (to Wellington). I thought you'd gone to Bal- timore, (kneels to put on Mrs. Colvin's overshoes). Other foot, Aunt Kate. Left foot first is bad hick. Well. I'm going to take the ladies out in the car. — Go on, you girls. Get ready. Hal. (laboring with the overshoes) . Aunt Kate can't go. We're going to buy books. Mad. You can buy books another day. They'll keep. Well. Strikes me you're rather keen on books all of a sudden, Kid. Louise. Yes, and Aunt Kate does n't care about shops. She hates them, don't you, Aunt Kate? (Hal rises to his feet, looking from one to the other.) Well, (slapping him on the hack). Come on, Boy, jolly up. What do you care about books? Let me show Aunt Kate a good time. .She's going away tomorrow. Hal. (to Mrs. Colvin). Are you going away tomor- row? Mrs. C. Yes, in the morning. Hal. (qnietly, turning azvay, and picking up his hat). I did n't know. You'd better go with the Duke. It'll be more fun any way. It's a tip-top morning, and the Duke's got a bran-new car. Go on, I don't mind. (He starts out). Mrs. C. I thought you wanted me to go with }'ou, Harry. Hal. (turning at the door). I do. — I mean I did. but the Duke's got a bran-new car. I'll hike along to school. I'm late now. Mrs. C. But, Hal. I'd rather ride in a street car with you. (Louise smiles indulgently). Mad. (laughing). You certainly are a sweet wo- man ! Mrs. C. I would. I'm not pretending just to please Hal. . , 42 JVcU. Ride in a street car, Aunt Kate? What non- sense ! Come on. Hal does n't mind. Mrs. C. (shakijig her head). Oh, I know a street car's hopelessly commonplace, but I am tired of gild edges. I'm tired of doing things that are n't worth while. Hal and I are going to do as we like for one whole long day. We're going to the toy shops, and wind up all the queer little jerky engines and the squeaky music boxes, — I haven't been in a toy shop for ever so long! And I'm going to buy a china dog with a muzzle on — a fierce little dog that growled so loud everybody was afraid of him ! And Hal's going to get me a bunch of street violets, and maybe (with a tremulous little laugh) maybe we'll eat peanuts ! We will if we want to, won't we. Boy? On the side streets, you know, so you won't be disgraced ! I'm going to forget some of the things I have to remember on other days — the untrue things that the people we know call Life. I'm tired of gilt edges ! Hal. (the radiance flashing back to his face). Aunt Kate, I dare you to run away ! Mrs. C. (seimng his hand). Anybody that will take a dare will steal sheep ! ( They run out, hand in hand. Wellington, Madeline and Louise look at each other in silence.) Louise, (fingering her nczu zvrap idly). Did you ever? It's like an elopement! Mad. (ivith a shrug). Hal does n't seem like the same boy. Louise. He's lost his head about Aunt Kate. You know how much he cares for books. Well. Well, go on, and get into some other togs. We'll take a spin, and have luncheon at Green's. I got tickets for "The Girl from Rector's" this afternoon. Louise. Oh, that's great. And Madeline, we can stop at Wanamaker's and see that lovely lace I was telling you about. It's only twenty-five a yard. Well, (pointing to the door). Hurry up! The day's getting on. 43 Mad. {archly). Give us five minutes? Well. I'll give you. five, but you may take thirty. (The girls go, talking eagerly, both at once, and their light voices reach him in diminishing cadences. When their voices have died quite azvay, he takes off his heavy overcoat, tosses it on a chair, and sits down. He takes a cigarette case from his pocket, selects one, starts to light it, then puts it back and pockets the case. He takes up a book, opens it, then lays it on the table, thoughtfully. Then he says, sadly, looking into space zvith- narrowed eyes) ; "Tired of gilt edges !" A woman tired of gilt edges! "Tired of gilt edges!" Why, damn it, so am I. but you can't wash the gold off your fingers. It sticks ! It sticks ! EPILOGUE (The Dining-room of the Parker Home, Wednesday Morning, at 9 o'clock. Mr. and Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Colvin and Mr. Martin are breakfasting.) Mr. P. {from the head of the table). Breakfast is a movable feast at this house. Wellington takes his at eight, Louise merges hers with luncheon at eleven, and Hal eats on the run. We old folks have to keep up the traditions. Pass the bread, please. Bv the way, where is Hal?. Mrs. P. Emma says he went out about eight o'clock. He told her he'd be back in time for breakfast. Mr. P. (making good headway with his breakfast). Of course he will. He eats on the run, but he always eats. Mr. M. He was cutting around his room long before seven o'clock. It sounded as if he were loading a fur- niture van — or unloading one. He must have something on his mind. Mr. P. {to Mrs. Colvin). Have you told him yet? Mrs. C. No, I'd rather you'd tell him. 44 Mrs. P. (wiping her eyes). Sydney, don't you dare tell him while I'm here. I can't stand it. Mr. P. But ril have to tell him before Kitty goes. (Mr. Martin looks from one to the other, piLZcIed.) (Enter Wellington, hat in hand.) Well, (stepping up to Mrs. Colvin). Sorry not tO' breakfast with you, Aunt Kate, but my day begins at eight. Goodbye. I wish you were going to stay with us awhile. We need you around here, don't we, Dad? Mrs. C. (rising). That's very nice of you, Welling- ton. Maybe next time I can stay longer. Well. I hope so. Take good care of Hal, and come again sure. Mrs. C. Good luck in your Wall Street war, dear boy. M'^ell. (going). Thank you. My regards to the suf- fragettes of Egypt. Goodbye. — Oh, Dad, I've ordered the car for you. So long. Aunt Kate! (goes). Airs. C. (resinning her breakfast) . I'm glad he's so- interested in his work. Air. M. His play, you mean. The Stock Exchange is- the gayest playground in the world. Airs. C. And the saddest. Air. AI. Oh, as to that, authorities differ. (Enter Hal, his cap on sidez^'ays, carryi)ig some red roses.) "This little pig went to market." Hal. (going directly to Airs. Cohz'in). Right you are,. Uncle Andy. I've been to market. — Aunt Kate, I bought you these roses because you're going away, and I wish you would n't. Airs. C. (rising to take the roses). Thank you, Hal. That was very thoughtful of you. How did you know that I like red roses best? Hal. Oh, I know. I'm not so slow. You see you're kind of like a red rose yourself. 45 Mr. M. Bravo, young man ! Tliat was very neat for a sprout of your experience. Mrs. P. Hal, do take off your cap, that's a good boy. Hal. (standing behind Airs. Colz'in's chair). Aunt Mary, you've been crying. Did anybody hurt your feel- ings? Show me the man! {brandishing Jiis fists). Show me the man ! I'll pulverize him ! Mrs. P. (rising hurriedly). No, I — I have a head- ache. I — that is, I — I must get on my things. It must he nearly time to go. (She hurries out, as if escaping from something.) Hal. (looking after her). She has n't a headache. Somebody has hurt her feelings. She'll tell me about it tomorrow. We ahvays tell each other our troubles. Mr. P. (to Hal). So you're sorry Aunt Kitty's go- ing away. Hal. You bet. Are n't you. Mr. P. Yes, but I'd be sorrier if she were n't coming back. Hal. (stepping around so he can see Mrs. Colvin's face). Are you coming back. Aunt Kate? (Mr. Martin makes a pretense of going on zvitJi his breakfast, but his interest in the succeeding conversation is keen and in- telligent.) Mrs. C. Yes, Prince Hal, I'm coming back to get you. Hal. To get me? Mrs. C. To get you. Hal. (slozvly). Coming back to Philadelphia to get — me? (Mrs. Colvin nods three times, smilingly.) Is it a riddle? Or a new sort of joke? Please don't joke about me. Mr. P. (rising from the table). She is n't joking, Harry. I almost wish she were. She says she needs you more than we do, and she's coming back to get you in May, and you'll go to Europe with her. Hal. She is? I am? (shaking his head in a dazed fashion). And this is n't to be my home any more? 46 Mr. P. (gejitly). Not any more, Harry. Hereafter you'll live with your Aunt Kitty. Hal. (slowly, steadily, feeling his blinded zva\'). I think I do not understand. Did Aunt Kate ask you for me, or did you — you ask her to take me? Air. P. Come here, Harry. (Hal steps up to him, erect and proud). Look at me. How can you ask me such a question? Aunt Kitty argued with me for two- hours last night to get my consent, and it took us both to win your Aunt Jj^kte over. Have n't I proved that 1 love you, my boy, in the last five years? Hal. (steadily). Yes, but nobody has to take care of me. I — I can drive a milk wagon. Mr. P. You must n't say things like that to me, Harry. It is n't fair. We love you ; you know that. But Aunt Kitty says we have Louise and Wellington,, and she needs you more than we do, — needs you to help' carry out some of those wonderful plans of hers. And you love your Aunt Kitty, don't you? Hal. [Steadily). Yes, I love Aunt Kate all right. Mr. P. (trying to speak cheerfully). Why, then,, everything's lovely, and the goose honks high. And think where you'll go, — Paris, London, Egypt, — every- where, and maybe come back in an airship ! Hal. (breaking a little). Yes. LTncle Syd, but I — I'm not good enough to live with Aunt Kate. Mrs. C. (holding her roses to her lips as she speaks). Even supposing you are n't, Hal, perhaps you can im- prove. Hal. (extending his hand to Mr. Parker). Uncle Syd, you have been good to me. I — I — Air. P. (taking Hal's hand in both of his). That's all right, my boy, that's all right. We — we hate to lose you, but I think — and Kitty thinks — that it will be best for you in the end. That is what we want to do, — what is best for you. We all hope — I mean that I — I — Ex- cuse me. I forgot to 'phone Jenkins about that little matter. (He goes out, hastily.) 47 Hal. (not moz'iiig). And this is n't to be my home any more — not any more in all my life-time ! — Uncle Syd has been very good to me, Aunt Kate. Mrs. C. {Zi'ith the roses to her lifs). I am sure of that, Boy. And he will always be good to you. Air. ]\I. ifurtk'ely wiping Jiis eyes on his napkin). Have you had your breakfast, Kid? Hal. (turning his wide ga::e on Mr. Martin). Uncle Andy, did you know this? Mr. M. (nonchalantly, folding his iiapkin). Did I know what? I know some things. A man of my years usually retains a few facts. Hal. (zvith a long, rela.ving sigh). Did you know I was going with Aunt Kate? Mr. M. Not until this moment, but it i? the best possible thing that could come to you. (to Mrs. Colvin). I congratulate you on your decision. Mrs. C. Thank you. Uncle Andy. I hope I can make Harry happy and — useful. Hal. (sinking into a chair some distance from the tabic). Something is always happening to me. il/r. M. Come, Kid, eat your breakfast. We're all going to the station in a few minutes. Hal. (still in a state of ama.ce). Something is al- ways happening to me. (Enter Louise, //; a quiet morning gozvn.) Louise. Good morning, everybody. — Aunt Kate, Madeline and I meant to breakfast with you. but w^e did n't waken up in time. She'll be down in a minute. (She sits dozi'n at the tabic.) Hal. Louise, guess what's happened to me. Louise. Something good? Hal. The best ever. Louise, (eating her breakfast). You passed in Latin. Hal. (scornfully). Latin nothin' ! It's bigger than that, I'm here to tell you. 48 Louise. I did n't know anything was bigger than passing in Latin. Mr. M. (rising from the tabic). He has passed up Latin, rather. — Hal, come eat your breakfast. (to Louise). Are n't you going to the station with your Aunt. Louise. Yes, but she does n't go until noon. There's oceans of time. Mr. M. She's going at ten fifteen. You'd better look lively, (to Mrs. Cohnn). Do make that young hopeful of yours eat some breakfast. The excitement has gone to his head. And hurry up, all of you. (goes). Louise, (hurrying up). I did n't know you had changed your plans. — Hal, go tell Emma to call Made- line. Mrs. C. (rising from the table). No, there is n't time. You tell her goodbye for me. — Hal, let me pour you a cup of coffee? Hal. I don't want any breakfast. May I tell Louise what's happened to me? Mrs. C. (gathering up her roses). Look what Hal brought me. — You may if you'll eat your breakfast. Hal. (springing up). I'll eat ten breakfasts! I'll eat a crocodile, as Hamlet says. (He holds the portiere aside for Mrs. Colvin to pass out.) Louise, I'm going to Europe with Aunt Kate. Louise. Yes, you are ! I have a pastel of your going to Europe ! Hal (hauling a chair up to the tabic). That's all right, I am. And I'm to live with Aunt Kate always. Uncle Syd just told me. Louise, (leaning back in her chair). You are going to do zvhatF Hal. (standing up, reaching for tilings to cat). I'm going to help Aunt Kate build schools for — for those women in bondage, and hospitals and homes and things. She asked Uncle Syd last night if I could n't. Louise. What do you mean, — if you mean anything? 49 Hal. I mean something this time, all right. Listen. Aunt Kate asked Uncle Syd if I could live with her — she needs a boy like me to help build those hospitals and things. And I'm going to Europe in ]\Iay. Louise. Really, Hal, — really? Hal. Honor bright ; hope to die. And Aunt ]\Iary said no at first, and they made her say yes. They had an awful time to bring her around. Louise, (shaking her head zvith earnestness). Are n't you going to live with us any more? Not any more — ■ ever? {Hal shakes his head with equal earnestness.) What'll we do without you ? What'll / do ? There won't be any more fun in this house. Don't go, boy, don't go ! What do you care about hospitals? Hal. I got to go. Aunt Kate needs me. Louise. I don't care how much she needs you. We need you, too. She has everything else; she can't have you ! She can't have you! (buries her face in her nap- kin). I wish she had stayed away! I wish she had stayed away ! Hal. (much discomforted by Louise's grief). Maybe I'll amount to something if she takes me. Louise. You could amount to something here, I guess! (sobbing). Oh, I wish she had stayed away! I wish she had stayed away ! Hal. (watching her in great distress). Please don't cry, Louise! Please don't! Louise. I'll make Papa take it back! He'll do any- thing I ask him. She can't have you ! (Enter Emma.) Bnima. Miss Louise, your mother says if you're go- ing with them, come get ready. Louise, (rising). Tell her I'm coming. (Bninia goes, wondering and sympathetic.) I'll talk to Aunt Kate myself — you see if I don't ! She has everything else in the world. She can't have you! (She goes, half sobbing. Hal eats his breakfast soberly, with much heavy 50 sighing and reaching for things. Presently, enter Emma, with the morning mail.) Hal. Dolly Dimple, I'm going to Europe. Bmma. Yes you are! Hal. {folding his napkin very carefully). I'm going with my Aunt Kate in May. I'm going to live with her always, I guess. She's adopted me. Bmma. {dropping a fezv letters). You're joking, are n't you ? Hal. No, it's straight goods. I'm to help her do things, — things that count, you know, and keep on counting after you're dead. Bmma. {gravely). What sort of things do you mean? Hal. {rising from the table). I don't know yet — exactly, but Aunt Kate knows. She says she needs me in her business. Bmma. {commencing to collect the dishes). Won't you live here any more — not in all your life? Hal. {largely). Oh, I shall probably be in America sometimes — off and on. {He takes up his overcoat.) {Bnter Mrs. CoIvVIN, carrying her traveling bag and the roses.) Mrs. C. Are you ready, Harry? We're all waiting. HaL {struggling into his overcoat). Aunt Kate, Dolly Dimple does n't believe it — that I'm going to Europe. You tell her. Mrs. C. {smiling). Yes, Emma, he is going with me— he's to be my boy forever! {She holds out her gloved hand to him, impulsively). Hal. {raising her hand to his lips, azvkzvardly enough). My Aunt Kate! CURTAIN. 51 S^ 27 1911 Other BooKs by tb© Same flutbor THE NOAHS AFLOAT An Historical Romance. Cloth, 12 mo; net, $1.50; postage, 10 cents. "A delicious burlesque, Irreverent but Irresistibly funny." —The Bookseller. THE HEART AND THE CROWN A Volume of Son- nets. Full leather; printed in two colors; postpaid, $1.25. "The work Is of fine quality, with much that is beautiful and ef- fective."— The Graduate Magazine. TU.VIBLEWEED A Book of Vagrant Verse. Cloth, 1 6mo; net, $ 1 .00; postage, 8 cents. "This beautiful poetry has the scent of the prairie grass, the rhythm of the rolling plains."- The Eagle. THE OPEN ROAD A Book of Outcast Verse. Cloth, 1 6mo; net, $1.25; postage, 8 cents. "A book of verse which rises clean out of ihe realm of the ordin- ary."— The Wichita Beacon. The above books can be ordered through bookstores, or of the author, H. Rea Woodman, Poughkeepsie, New York. One copy del. to Cat. Div. SrP 21 ^9" SEP 27 19? 1 1 inRARY OF CONGRESS 018 360 898 8 &